


From Now On We Are

by Hum My Name (My_Kind_of_Crazy)



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Bets, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Fake Dating, Flirting, I'll add more tags later, M/M, Slow Burn, i guess, probably, smut later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-05-10 09:33:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 37,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14734448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Kind_of_Crazy/pseuds/Hum%20My%20Name
Summary: "Very well, Pete Wentz, I accept your challenge. Hold me, kiss me, do what you want and I’ll do the same for you. We’ll play like lovers and whoever falls for real— whoever falls in love first— loses.”Pete grins sharply and Patrick matches it exactly.“Deal?” He asks Pete.Pete nods. “Deal.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was the definition of a spur of the moment decision. I've been outlining and working on fics that just don't want to work right now (one of which being something I wouldn't be able to post for months, anyway) and, basically, I missed writing so much. And I missed all the other readers and writers and being part of that community so here we are!
> 
> I wish I could say this was entirely my idea but the whole "whoever falls first" thing was based on a post I saw on Pinterest. So there's that.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

“—a fucking mess!” Patrick snaps at the security guard currently babbling about company codes and appointment guidelines. “Your boss wants to make a fucking mess out of my life and you expect me not to do something about it? Is that the kind of shit you guys all put up with around here?”

Security Guy winces and Patrick almost wishes he could see the scene from an outside view. An angry man, a whole head shorter than the front receptionist— a lovely woman, Patrick recalls, who’d let him in with no trouble after a few well-placed smiles and lip bites on his part— causing the head of security to shrink away with nothing more than snarls and swears. 

If he weren’t so pissed, he’d almost feel proud of himself.

“If you're threatening anyone, I’m going to have to ask you to—”

“No one’s threatening anyone,” Patrick says. “Not unless you count the letter I received this morning and, I assure you, the man behind that door is the only one doing the threatening in that.”

The look of confusion crossing the other man’s face doesn’t surprise Patrick in the slightest; he doesn’t imagine that the CEO of such a beloved record label would be ready to admit how far he’s willing to go in order to get what he wants. 

Well, other people might put up with this shit but he most certainly will not. He’s tried playing nice but, now? It seems that shouting and screaming and hinting at physical harm is the only way to get his point across. 

When he received that first letter from Decaydance— one of the nation’s fastest growing record labels— he’d been honored by their interest in his little studio. Honored and, admittedly, a bit confused. Nervous Breakdance Studios isn’t necessarily a household name and it’d be a joke to try to consider any of its visitors “artists.” But Patrick had spent years on that studio and it had only seemed right to send back a polite rejection of the company’s offer. It had been simple and to the point, he’d thought. It expressed gratitude but, ultimately, said no.

That should have been the end; the letters, though, kept coming. Each one grew in stubbornness, trying every tactic in the book. More zeroes appeared on the estimated offer; less time was spent on platitudes and manners. Patrick responded to each letter in kind, his own irritation showing through in every stern  _ never gonna happen  _ he sent back. 

And, then, silence. 

Patrick should have known better than to expect that Decaydance had finally accepted his answer. But the letters had stopped weeks ago and he’d nearly forgotten they’d happened— a minor hiccup in a bigger picture.

But then, this morning, something new was found in his mailbox. A letter, written personally, or so it said, by the CEO himself. A letter which, quite thoroughly, promised Patrick that the company had certain connections with his bank.

A letter which, more or less, said  _ Take the offer and give us the studio or we will take it by force _ . 

Patrick still doesn’t know why his stupid studio means so much to these assholes but if they thought scaring him would work, they were in for something else. They were in for—

“Nothing more than a few moments, I swear,” Patrick says. He takes deep breaths through his nose, trying and failing to drain some of the red from his vision. The letter from this morning remains clenched in his hand, waving through the air with each frantic gesture of his hands. “I’ll be in and out. I just need to make sure this isn’t some… some kind of fucking messed up joke.”

Security Guy hesitates, sparking some sort of hope in Patrick’s chest, before deflating and shaking his head.

“I understand your frustration,” he very blatantly lies, “but I just simply can’t allow you to march into the middle of a company meeting and—”

“Oh, for god’s fucking sake,” Patrick grumbles. “You all are useless.” With a heavy huff, Patrick shoves past the security, all his anger tossing him far enough to the side for Patrick to complete his mission in single-handedly murdering Decaydance’s owner. 

“Sir, you can’t!”

“Fucking watch me.”

Security Guy shouts and rushes back towards him. His hands skim Patrick’s shoulder but it doesn’t matter— the doors have already been forced open.

All fall silent, the last words of some young man’s presentation fading into the stunned stillness Patrick’s presence had forced into the room. Dozens of eyes stare accusingly at him as he glares at each person in turn, red-faced and panting. It’s a sight that would typically have him shuddering and shying away but, today, he’s more than happy to let them all accept this as their last sight before death. 

Well, not all of them. Just...

“Peter Wentz,” he spits. The name’s like poison on his tongue, an acid dripping into the air and curling into a bitter smoke as he yanks away from the security’s grip and storms further in. He has command of the room— a laughable sight, he’s sure— but he allows himself to bask in the undivided attention. “Which one of you is Peter Wentz?”

No one answers; no one moves. Patrick’s vividly reminded of old westerns and spy films, of crooks with force and mean voices. He doesn’t want to play a villain but if someone doesn’t speak up soon, he’s taking the nearest heavy object and using it to find answers the old fashioned way.

Just as Patrick begins eyeing up the potted plant next to him, someone speaks.

“I suppose that’s my cue.” It’s a rough voice, the few words demanding more attention than Patrick ever could. The sound comes from the end of the table but the line of people leaning towards the source makes it hard to see who spoke. “The rest of you take a break, I’ll handle this. Check your notes and handouts. When we come back, we’ll go over Andy's proposal.” The speaker uses a gentle authority, not booming or overacted in the way Patrick might have imagined, but it still sends everyone scurrying to collect their papers and rush out the door. They all pass by Patrick with curious glares, not one of their judgemental looks piercing the anger Patrick’s been wrapped up in for the past few hours. Someone huffs and brushes past him roughly near the end of the group. It only serves to harden Patrick’s resolve. 

“Sir, are you sure you want…” Security Guy’s words fade off, the man eyeing Patrick with distrust. It’s a look Patrick returns with equal fervor. 

At the other side of the room, a man in a tight-fitting suit keeps his back turned towards them as he works on shutting off the powerpoint presentation left on the projector. He laughs lightly as he works, running a hand through his dark hair. “I appreciate the concern but I can handle Mr. Stump on my own. Rest assured, your services won’t be required.” 

Patrick’s breaths, hot and heavy, pause at the sound of his own name. It’s twisted in this other man’s voice, waiting like the fear of a strike or blow. He— Mr. Wentz, Peter, the asshole in charge of this company— sounds nothing more than amused as Security Guy finally leaves and the door clicks shut behind him.

Slowly, Patrick takes a breath and raises an eyebrow, waiting to be addressed further. When no words come, he stalks forward, the paper shaking in his hand. “Mr. Stump?”

“That is your name, is it not?” Peter asks, finally succeeding in turning the projector off. Amused, still, and more than a little taunting. Patrick’s jaw clenches and he crosses his arms.

“Then you're Peter Wentz?” He asks instead of answering.

“Just Pete will do,” Peter— Pete— says. “I imagine this is about that letter you have there? I’d recognize it anywhere.” 

“Yeah, about that, asshole, I—”

Pete turns and Patrick’s words more than fade— they fall apart and die completely.

It’s no secret to Patrick that Pete Wentz is known as every rich boy stereotype— playing with hearts and cash as frivolously as he does with booze and his own reputation. A playboy’s very definition, at best; a sleazy scumbag, at worst. Patrick hadn’t forgotten about those rumors when he’d stormed in. 

But perhaps he shouldn’t have disregarded them so easily. 

Standing before him, Pete’s not a big man by any means, though his wealth and status would suggest otherwise. He’s no taller than Patrick, someone who came to peace with his restricted height years ago. His stare, though, an enticing clash of browns and golds, keeps Patrick from moving, from breathing, in fear that those metallic shades should cut him if he comes too close. Pete’s smile, too, is the jagged edge of pleasant enjoyment at Patrick’s situation, lips twisted into a smirk that provokes Patrick in ways it has no right to. It’s a crude smile, a grin promising that Patrick can’t possibly make it out of this room alive. 

It’s a smile that has Patrick tearing his eyes away from the loose strands of dark hair falling easily across Pete’s forehead. It’s a smirk that reminds Patrick that black ink on tan skin is nothing but a distraction, no matter how appealing such patterns are to his eye.

Clearing his throat, Patrick steps forward and shatters whatever spell Pete was attempting to put him under. 

The letter hits the table with a satisfying smacking sound, reminiscent of an imagined slap across a face too cocky for its own good.

“Due on demand,” Patrick says, simple and practiced. “You want the bank to call the due on demand clause on me.”

“Want is a word with implications,” Pete says, frowning in a way that looks entirely ingenuine. “I don’t  _ want  _ to force you out of your studio by such means. Consider it more of a necessary business move, Mr. Stump.”

“Just Patrick will do,” Patrick snaps back, folding his arms across his chest. “This is… This is blackmail or some shit. Something illegal. I can go to the police.”

“You can try.” That insufferable smirk is back. “But if I have friends at the bank, what makes you think I wouldn’t have friends within the police force, as well?”

Patrick’s fingers dig into his arms, his knuckles white as he presses his own anger back into his body. Anything to keep from physically attacking the city’s most elite bastard. “You must think you’re so untouchable.”

“On the contrary, Mr. S- Patrick.” Pete’s smirk twists like light landing on a piece of glass from a new angle. He steps forward, even movements that speak of nothing more than self-assuredness and the knowledge that he looks good while doing it. Patrick keeps still and holds his ground, jaw tight as Pete comes to a stop before him. “I don’t mind being touched and I certainly wouldn’t be opposed if it came from someone as spirited as you. What I think, however, is that you have a fundamental misunderstanding of this situation. I get what I want, Patrick, and I want your studio.”

Patrick meets his eyes with a dark glare of his own, swallowing down molten gold and whiskey shades with ease. “It’s a stupid request. There are a dozen other studios around the city— studios with owners who would leap at the number you’re offering. Why do you want mine so badly? I’ve never seen you or your artists in there… What’s the deal with it?”

For once, Pete’s easy expression slips— hesitation revealing itself from behind his cruel grin and confident eyes. It’s a second— a hitched breath, a twitch in the corner of his lips— but it’s enough for Patrick to paint on a smirk of his own.

“What I do with the building is none of your concern,” Pete says, pulling back to place a hand on his hip. The bent smile returns and, this time, it’s accompanied by narrowed eyes scanning distastefully over Patrick’s being. “But it all really comes down to is location. Your studio is closest to the more… well, not to sound antiquated but you’re in the perfect position for our artists to better mingle with the more common people of society.”

Patrick scoffs in disbelief, his jaw dropping enough to make him feel like a clown. “Common? You mean the people who don’t have the word 'millionaire' in their Wikipedia page?”

“No, I just mean people like you.”

Patrick’s next breath is sharp, his cheeks flaming as the words hit him. The impact’s worse than he’d like to admit, boiling his blood and bringing the red hue back into his vision as he takes a step closer to the asshole in front of him.

“Look,” Pete continues, gesturing towards the letter laying limply on the desk. “Why be upset with me? Your bank’s the one that snuck the clause in there; I’d just be putting it to use. And I meant what I said about not wanting to do it. You’ve been struggling financially and I—hey, don’t look at me like that, it’s obvious enough from the way that you’re dressed.” Pete’s nose wrinkles, taking in Patrick’s worn cardigan and dirty jeans. Patrick, for his part, does his best not to shift under the critical gaze, though he does duck his head and wishes he hadn’t rushed out without his hat this morning. “You should consider my company’s offer a blessing, really. You said it yourself— there are plenty of other studios being put to waste around the city. If you really wanted, you could use the money to buy a better one, really make a name for yourself with it. What’s so important about the one you have now? Sentimental value?”

Patrick bristles at the mocking tone, scowling as Pete laughs at his own antics. Pete’s closer than he knows but no way in hell is Patrick admitting to that. Besides, there are more than a few reasons he’d hate to see his studio sold off and the man before him is number one.

“Maybe I just don’t trust putting something I’ve worked so carefully on into the hands of someone like you.” 

Pete, now, appears taken aback as Patrick’s words hit home, drawing his eyebrows together and frowning. “Me? We’ve never met before today and—”

“And we didn’t need to,” Patrick chuckles, leaning back and making a show of glancing Pete over. “Peter Wentz, CEO of Decaydance. Yeah, I’ve heard what kind of guy you are— a playboy who just so happened to get lucky with the business he was born into. You didn’t do jackshit to get Decaydance to where it is and I bet you do even less for everything else. Everyone knows that you’re nothing more than a wannabe heartbreaker with more engagements and divorces than a soap opera widow. You’re a player, Pete— a player who collects hearts, not intellect or anything of worth. Forgive me if I don’t quite trust someone so immature with something so important to me.”

Gold comes alive in Pete’s eyes, pressed against the darker browns as if trying to break free. Fire and darkness fight within his gaze, drying Patrick’s mouth and freezing his breaths in one go. He storms forward, breaths away from Patrick, and, this time, Patrick steps back.

“Again, Patrick, dear, I believe you misunderstand.” His tone, sugar-sweet and soft as a promise, belies the way he looks at Patrick now-- dark and testy and cold. “I don’t force anyone to fall for me— they do that all on their own.” 

Patrick’s lips tug into a smirk mimicking Pete’s. Pete’s eyes have him trapped, yes, but that doesn’t mean Patrick can’t fight back. “Don’t expect me to believe things like that aren’t a game to you.”

“Hardly.” His voice drops now and Patrick’s smile threatens to fall. Pete continues walking towards him, Patrick retreating until his hips hit the edge of the desk and he has nowhere left to go. Pete’s inches away, the warmth of his body mingling with Patrick’s, and his light laugh crosses the distance in a heartbeat. His fingers follow the sound, caressing Patrick’s cheek until Patrick jerks his head to the side, his eyes flaring with a dare for Pete to try that again. “It’s not a game but, if it were, I assure you that you wouldn’t stand a chance. If I were what you say I am— a player, a heartbreaker, someone intent on using people without remorse— we wouldn’t be having this conversation. If I wanted, I could have had you bent over this table the second you came in; I could have had you begging me to fuck you in the time it takes for my employees to return from a lunch break. Patrick, is that what you want me to want?” 

“No.” Patrick’s response is immediate, even if his breaths are heavy and his cheeks are flushed. “I’d want you to be the one begging. And, Peter, I promise you would be.”

This time, silence hits like the last chord of a song, lingering and teasing the air with the dancing touch of instruments and lyrics. Patrick watches Pete and Pete watches him, eyes caught on each other with nothing but dares and challenges in the small distance between. 

Silence can last forever or it can last for a breath. This time, it lasts just long enough for one more smirk to grace Pete’s face. 

“Fine, then,” he says. “You want a game? Let’s make it a game.”

Patrick raises an eyebrow, keeping his lips pressed close together. Pete laughs to himself, head tilted to the side.

“I propose the following,” Pete says. “You stay by my side— let me hold you, kiss you, compliment you, treat you like a lover. If you can make a month without wanting it to be real, I’ll tear up the letters I sent and your studio will remain as your own.”

Patrick squints, looking for an ounce of a joke in Pete’s expression.

Pete gives nothing away.

“And what’s in it for you?” Patrick asks, reaching to cross his arms but dropping his hands from the lack of room. 

Pete, however, completely manages to run a hand through his hair and stroke at his chin. “Simple. When you inevitably fall for me, I’ll have the satisfaction of listening to you plead for the affection to be returned. And, by then, it won’t matter what I want— you’ll do anything to keep me happy and I won't have to do anything other than ask you to hand the studio over."

“So confident,” Patrick laughs sourly. “Who’s to say you won’t be confessing to me?”

To his credit, Pete’s reaction is nothing more than a cocked eyebrow and small hum.

“You’re not exactly my type,” he says. 

“Oh, not yet,” Patrick says, leaning forward with a chuckle caught in his words. “But I will be.” He pauses, considering. He leans back once more, watching Pete and taking his time, drinking in the handsome— impossibly, infuriatingly so— man before him. “I do like the thought of being the first to tell you no… Very well, Pete Wentz, I accept your challenge. Hold me, kiss me, do what you want and I’ll do the same for you. We’ll play like lovers and whoever falls for real— whoever falls in love first— loses.”

Pete grins sharply and Patrick matches it exactly.

“Deal?” He asks Pete. Blue meets brown, eyes locked as if searching for a key in the other's gaze.

Pete nods once. “Deal.” 

Silence falls like snow in Summer. Silence burns like a fire in Winter. It should be a mess.

But Patrick’s never been more excited.   

  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two stupid boys on a stupid date. Also, how does flirting work?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, so many people that seem excited for this fic!! Thank you for your comments and stuff, they both inspire and terrify me, haha. Like, I'm glad that you're interested but also I will actually cry if I end up letting you down. So, I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Also~ A little bit of self-promo. I've been writing more than I've been breathing recently so there are a few other things I've posted since this work! There should be two oneshots and the beginning of another multi-chapter fic. They're all a bit dark but, hey, if you liked anything in here than maybe you'll like something there, too, so, please, check it out!
> 
> Anyway, onto this chapter! Unbeta'd and edited from midnight - 3am, I can't promise that it's perfect but I do hope you like it. Here you go!

Mismatched socks— one black-white striped and the other displaying an embarrassing amount of spots in annoyingly vibrant primary colors— shuffle across the cold wooden floor of Patrick’s kitchen, the only sound in the otherwise silent house. Patrick seems to hold his breath as he fills his coffee, already on his third cup in the past half hour. It’s merely nine a.m., far too early for him to be awake, but his neighbor had insisted on knocking down his door until he dragged himself out of bed to respond to her misplaced frustration of having some of his letters delivered to her mailbox. It had been sorted in less than ten minutes but Patrick still found it impossible to sleep once realizing the sun was already in the sky.

Still, it would have been nice to have the extra time, though. He’s been working late at the studio the past few weeks in hopes to bring more attention to it. Not that it’s done any good, he thinks sourly as his eyes drift over towards the stack of letters tossed haphazardly onto his countertop. Providing studio time to a few potential artists and more than a few wannabe artists hardly makes it seem like something worth trying. 

He turns from the pile of mail with a scoff, dumping more sugar than he needs into his coffee. Decaydance hasn’t sent him a letter since the threat and Pete…

Well. Pete hasn’t contacted him at all. 

Granted, it’s only been a night that’s passed but Patrick had expected more from Pete than bravado and big talk. He’d made a big show of challenging Patrick but he couldn’t make the first move?

Pathetic.

Patrick takes a sip of his coffee, grimaces at the egregious amount of sugar clumps, and checks his phone again. His teeth press lightly into his bottom lip as he glances over the notifications he’s grown used to— clients and friends and the few family members still trying to hear from him. He bites down a bit harder and sighs as he sets his coffee down. 

The rational thing to do here would be to text Pete first but that would take effort and time and the ability to act like he wants to— all things nearly impossible to find when he’s been awake for barely an hour.

But they’re also things Pete has yet to prove ownership of, too.

He opens his contacts list with a sigh, carelessly scrolling through it until he finds the “Peter” he’d so stubbornly typed in yesterday when they’d exchanged contact information.

“I’d love for you to stay and chat,” Pete had teased, his smile as fake as the one Patrick shot back, “but I have a meeting to run and, well, I’m sure you could find something to do in your studio. Let’s continue this conversation later.”

Apparently, it’s up to Patrick to continue it. For some reason, the thought makes him sick.

Well, he knows the reason. He knows it’s Pete’s cockiness that makes his stomach roll over with disgust each time he imagines wooing him; it’s Pete’s determination to take Nervous Breakdance away that brings the taste of bile onto his tongue when he thinks of calling him his boyfriend, no matter how long that lasts. Pete’s not someone he ever planned on dating— faked or otherwise— and he’s certainly not someone Patrick would plan on being nice to, let alone flirtatious. Good looks and wealth only go so far and Pete’s flaws far outweigh each.

A headache, sharp and persistent, presses between Patrick’s eyes and against his skull, drilling a hole with no sign of stopping. It’s nothing new— he’s certain it began the second he saw Pete’s letter yesterday morning— but he still shuts his eyes against it.

Pete’s not someone he would date, that much is sure. But he doesn’t have a choice in the matter anymore— not if he wants to keep his studio. His options have been reduced to seducing the biggest asshole he knows or hiding away until another choice reveals itself.

In the end, texting Pete seems to be the obvious thing to do.

Patrick opens his eyes and begins a new message for Pete. Of course, he doesn’t tell himself he’s texting Pete; if he did, he’d end up ruining this entire challenge before it begins. Rather, he indulges his fantasies and imagines he’s asking someone nicer on a date.

For such a spitfire, Patrick’s taste in men ranges more towards the sweet side— much like the coffee still staining the back of his throat. His perfect boyfriend would be someone kind, someone who’d help him to build his studio into something great rather than take it away. He imagines someone fascinating, someone with something new to teach him each time they speak— and someone more than willing to admit they can learn something from Patrick, too. He draws up daydreams of handsome men with handsome smiles, boys with a touch of recklessness and the desire to drag him into adventures not even his dreams could create. He pretends he’s messaging someone like that, someone with triple the charm and twice the charisma of the man he’s really composing the text for.

And, if his perfect boyfriend happens to have a cocky smirk and swirling tattoos, he doesn’t linger on the thought for long. 

TO PETE: _Okay, super last minute and spontaneous but I couldn’t help but think about our talk yesterday— specifically, I couldn’t help but hope you hadn’t forgotten! Want to catch up tonight? Doesn’t need to be anything fancy. I was thinking we could check out this Chinese restaurant near my house?_ _  
_ TO PETE: _I don’t want you to feel there’s any pressure, though_

Patrick holds his breath for as long as it takes for Pete to respond— which, he notes, isn’t long at all.

FROM PETE:  _ ofc i didnt forget lol! itd be a crime not to tbh. im free tonight so send me a time and addrss? i can meet u @ your place :) _

Patrick’s lips curl at the sight of Pete’s atrocious spelling and lack of grammar. It’s a jarring contrast to the man he’d met the day before, someone put together and well-spoken. It’d be an endearing trait, Patrick thinks, if he hadn’t threatened Patrick so easily. With the threat in mind, though, his thumbs twitch with the need to call him on each offense. He’s halfway through the chiding message when another text comes through.

FROM PETE:  _ and anthr area where we differ! i want you to feel all the right pressure, trick. In all the right places… ;) _

It’s worse than the first text and Patrick swallows to keep himself from gagging at the joke. He opts to ignore it, firing out his address and a decent time before Pete can bother him further. Pete responds with a thumbs up and Patrick sets his phone facedown on the counter in case he has any other antics planned.

This is the man Patrick’s dared to fall in love with? This is a challenge, sure, but not in the way Patrick would guess Pete was expecting.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Fake dating Pete Wentz is a bit like playing a video game— though Patrick’s memories of such games are limited to those he played decades ago. Still, the basics remain. An evil boss to destroy, strategies, and cheat codes. And levels. A month’s worth of levels.

Level one seems to be their first date, a simple night out at a place of Patrick’s choosing, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t still things for him to do. Prepare, plan, stress… 

The most important piece, though, is that of his outfit. 

If he was to stick with the video game analogy, he supposes it’d be a bit like creating his character. But instead of picking looks based on aesthetic preference, every item is carefully calculated— each viewed more as a weapon and tactic than a mere accessory. His heart pounds like a player logging onto a virtual battle; his palms sweat as if anticipating the controls soon to be held. He bites his lip, his cheeks grow hot, and he spends a full twenty minutes just staring into his closet. 

If it weren't for the challenge looming over every thought, he’d assume he was merely nervous.

And he’s not nervous. Or, at least, he’s pretty certain he’s not. 

Narrowing his rather limited closet down to an appropriate outfit takes more time than he’d like to admit— and he certainly doesn’t want to admit to the number of outfits he tried on. By the time he’s shrugging out of an outfit numbered somewhere in the double digits, his jaw’s tight and his nerves have settled into a crueler feeling of impending defeat. He’s never spent this much time on choosing an outfit but, then again, he’s never tried doing so under such a strange situation before, either. 

Eventually— at a time far later than it has any business being— Patrick settles on a look he hopes is decent enough for a dinner date with a man he hates. It’s simple and all black— the jeans a size skinnier than his usual and the shirt buttoned up to just beneath his collarbones— and he tucks the shirt in, finishing the look with a belt and one of his hats— fedora? Trilby? He can never tell the difference, despite how he pretends to. It doesn’t matter what the hat is, though, as long as it rests easily on his head without disturbing the bangs just beginning to brush over his eyebrows. 

It’s a look better saved for a job interview or a meeting with a client— especially when he ties on his lucky pair of boots— but it’s also one he can admit he looks good in, a confession which often makes pulling teeth look easy. He’s worn similar outfits on past dates— real dates— and has seen the charm work in person. 

He just hopes he can watch it work tonight. 

The letter Pete’s company had sent— the letter  _ Pete  _ had sent— rests lifelessly on the floor, crumpled and torn from no small amount of rage upon returning home yesterday. He thinks about tearing it further— maybe even burning it— but the doorbell breaks him from his thoughts. He gasps at the sound, eyes flying towards the clock and then the window. 

Had the time passed so easily? His cheeks redden at the realization of how long he had spent preparing— an hour or two, at least. It’s a thought he’d rather forget. 

Pete’s dressed far more simply than Patrick is, though they’re both in black. Patrick should be frustrated by the lack of effort but he’s too busy hating how Pete can make an oversized black band-tee look just as good as a suit. 

“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” Pete says, a smirk framing his words. “I stopped to pick this for you.” 

The rose he reveals isn’t something anybody— aside from a professional florist— stopped to pick, the thorns missing and end snipped at an overly precise angle, but it stops Patrick short anyway. It’s a garish shade of red, more blood than flower, and his nose itches from looking at it. 

“A bit much for a first date, don’t you think?” He asks even while taking the flower, staring at the vibrant petals to keep from rolling his eyes. Pete chuckles, reminding Patrick of every reason he hates him.

“Then I’ll bring another to the second date. You think we’ll be close enough by then for it to be appropriate?” Pete’s voice is all tease and taunt. He seems incapable of sounding genuine in any sense of the word. Patrick can’t tell if it’s going to make the challenge harder or easier. On one hand, he knows he’ll never fall for such a dick; on the other, he still has to hang around him and pretend he enjoys the company. The thought’s enough to tense every muscle in his body. 

“Depends on how tonight goes,” he says before stepping back inside to set the flower down on the table. He doesn’t bother with vases or water; caring for the flower would be like accepting a gift from Pete and he doesn’t want to feel like he owes him anything. When he returns back to the door, checking his hat in the mirror, Pete’s waiting with an expectant expression. Once again, Patrick fights not to roll his eyes. “The restaurant's a quick walk from here if you don’t mind the bit of activity.” 

Pete raises an eyebrow but says nothing on the suggestion. He stands by as Patrick locks the door and takes the lead down to the sidewalk. It takes a few minutes to completely leave the neighborhood and enter the busier side of the city but no one speaks during that time. Patrick had told himself he wouldn’t be awkward— though fake dating Pete Wentz is about as awkward as it gets. It seems Pete has other plans. He walks with his eyes straight ahead, body stiff, and hands twitching at his side. 

Patrick’s all too aware that this is the furthest thing from how boyfriends would act.

Before he can talk himself out of it— right as the first disagreement from the more logical side of his mind begins, actually— he presses his hand into Pete’s. Though there’s an instinctual tug away at first, Pete quickly returns the gesture and interlocks his fingers with Patrick’s. It’s warm in the cooling fall weather but incredibly uncomfortable, Pete’s grip too tight and demanding. With a soft breath, Patrick rearranges his hand until they’re less connected, palms touching but fingers merely holding onto each other. 

Or, at least, he tries to do as much. Pete’s laugh is to be expected as he fights with Patrick, pulling and yanking and trying to do this  _ his  _ way though Patrick was the one to come up with the idea. Patrick’s sure they must look ridiculous, two idiots fighting over how to hold hands, but it’s a matter of pride at this point. 

“Does it really bother you if we hold hands my way?” Pete breathes, only heard because Patrick’s standing so close. This time, Patrick does roll his eyes.

“Of course not.” He raises his eyebrows as he looks over to see if Pete can hear the sarcasm in his voice. “But a relationship is about compromise.” The  _ you asshole  _ is left unsaid but is more than obvious to both.

Pete hums and shifts his hand once more so that Patrick’s pinkie finger is caught between Pete’s pointer and middle finger. The rest wrap around the side of Pete’s hand, the way he had originally had them. It’s strange and Patrick wrinkles his nose at it.

He still counts it as a victory, though. And it doesn’t hurt that Pete’s hand actually feels comfortable now. Softer and kinder, almost like a real…

He cuts his thoughts off, a second away from shaking his head. 

“We’re here,” he says a few moments later, smiling at the familiar golden lettering across the restaurant’s door. It’s a modest establishment; Patrick remembers when the owners had first moved in years ago, having rented out the space before eventually buying it. “And we’re lucky. It doesn’t seem too busy.”

Patrick doesn’t bother watching Pete’s reaction as he opens the door and leads them inside, the tightened grip on his hand more than enough evidence of how Pete feels.

“I wouldn’t imagine it ever gets busy here,” Pete says anyway. 

Patrick— the wonderful, kind, competitive boyfriend he is— ignores it. Though, he does make a note to call Pete on it next time; he places that note beside the following one reminding him not to take Pete to any more personal places. Pete’s loss, really.

“Hey, Marissa,” Patrick says, letting go of Pete’s hand to greet the hostess. She’s relatively new to the staff, a college school girl saving up for next year’s tuition, but she still smiles brilliantly when Patrick steps towards her. Pete hovers behind him, as indifferent as ever, and Patrick pays him no mind though his smile tightens at the subtle hostility. “How have things been today? Not too bad, I hope?” 

“Nah, I wouldn’t say so,” Marissa says, shrugging as she goes through the menu stack. “Sami’s in the back if you want to say hi.” 

Patrick smiles at the offer but shakes his head. Sami— the owner, a kind older Asian woman with bright eyes and a sharp tongue— would hate him for doing so but Patrick knows from experience that she’s better left helping the chefs in the kitchen. “No, thanks.”

“Alright.” Marissa glances up from the menu she’d chosen and Patrick watches— cringing, wincing, praying— her eyes widen when they fall on Pete. “Oh, you two are together?” 

Pete beats Patrick to the response, eyebrows scrunched towards each other and eyes flaring. “Pretty much, yeah.” 

“O-oh. Okay.” Marissa looks to Patrick, her brown eyes narrowed as if he’d somehow betrayed her. “Patrick didn’t tell me.” 

“Yeah, I, well, you see, I…” He far from appreciates the way Pete’s looking at him now. This isn’t part of the challenge and it certainly doesn’t mean anything if Patrick had forgotten other people were supposed to fall for their act, as well. And as for the way Marissa’s glaring? It’s hardly fair. Sure, they’re friends but that doesn’t mean Patrick waltzes in here with every update in his life. “It’s a recent development.” 

Marissa huffs— Patrick tells himself it must have been a rougher shift than she said— and shrugs. He gives her credit, though, for the way she smiles at Pete— a feat Patrick can barely perform.

“I’m Marissa, one of Patrick’s friends. You two are cute together… Kinda.” 

A polite lie, Patrick’s sure. 

“Thanks,” Pete says, finally looking as miffed as Patrick feels. “I’m Pete. Wentz.” He trails off awkwardly, the surname hanging uncomfortably in the air. 

It’s only when Marissa turns and Pete blinks slowly with his jaw dropped— slightly, barely noticeable if not for how close Patrick’s standing— that it sinks in.

He’s expecting to be recognized.

It’s hilarious but it’s also horrible and Patrick bites his lip because he’s not sure if he’s going to laugh or tell him off. 

“Oh, don’t worry about the menu, actually,” he says instead, catching up to Marissa as she leads them to a table. He chances a glance back at Pete— currently checking his phone, of course— before sighing with what he hopes is a gracious smile. “Just, um, I don’t think we’ll stay for too long so maybe just two sampler plates? And the usual soup and waters, please.” 

Marissa’s eyes narrow fractionally but she nods, her expression an odd mix of smiling and glaring. “Of course. Just shout if you need anything else. It doesn’t look like anybody else plans on showing up for a bit.”

Patrick thanks her and turns to Pete. He already expects the disinterested behavior but seeing it takes everything not to groan and give up entirely.

“You want to take a seat?” Patrick asks, falling into his own chair before Pete can see his grimace. When Pete finally looks up from his phone, it’s with an apologetic grin that does nothing for Patrick’s feelings. 

“Sorry. Work stuff,” he says with a shrug.

Work stuff. It heats Patrick’s skin and turns his stomach. Pete’s “work stuff” puts his studio in danger; Pete’s “work stuff” is what landed them in this mess.

And it’s a mess Patrick has to put up with if he ever wants that “work stuff” to be out of his life for good.

He bites the inside of his cheek as Pete. As far as first dates go, this one’s far from romantic what with the overly bright lights and emptiness of the room around them. It’s awkward and staged and he wonders if this is level one in the video game analogy.

Level one in god knows how many it takes to properly win over Pete Wentz. 

Not for the first time, the thought brings a shudder through Patrick’s being. It’s a stupid challenge, he knows; stupid enough that, if he thinks on it for too long, his determination trades places with embarrassment. He and Pete would never match as friends, let alone lovers, yet someone is expected to fall in love by the end of the month— if not before. It’s a cruel task and an impossible one at that. Sure, Patrick’s confident enough in his abilities to be suave or flirtatious— he’s seduced his fair share of guys in the past, a questionable phase including dyed hair and fingerless gloves— but he’s not sure if he can convince himself to be either around Pete. 

Is it even possible to flirt with someone like him? Someone so cocky and self-assured, someone so willing to take away the last important piece of Patrick’s life?

Patrick shuts his eyes and sighs deeply through clenched teeth.

Pete’s abhorrent  _ everything _ , really, doesn’t matter in the face of losing his studio. And the fact that Pete’s such a horrible person only means Patrick won’t have to worry about falling for any of his tricks. The same way he thought the original letters were meaningless, this is nothing more than a minor distraction. It’s nothing but a few weeks, a small amount of time he can laugh about— or forget entirely— later. 

Still, his mind conjures up the same imaginations from before. Someone kind or thoughtful would be easier to put up with and he pretends someone like that is sitting before him. Perhaps they’d be smiling at him right now, prepared to tell him how wonderful the night is so far. Someone smart, talented, warm. Someone he would actually be able to love.

When he opens his eyes, though, it’s to Pete’s lowered eyebrows and concentrated frown.

“You okay?” Pete asks, eyes scanning Patrick’s face. “You look like you’re getting a headache or something.” 

Patrick laughs lightly, the suggestion not entirely impossible. “No, just thinking. But I appreciate the concern.”

Pete hums in response, tapping his fingers on the table as he glances around. He looks towards Marissa as she leads another group to a table on the other side of the restaurant, an excited family still wet from a visit to the local pool it seems. Patrick meets Marissa’s tired gaze and shrugs sympathetically. 

“You seem close with the staff,” Pete says, dragging Patrick’s attention back to him. Patrick blinks as he takes in the sourness behind Pete’s bored eyes.

“Well, yeah,” he says. Defenses and arguments fills his chest and he swallows down the biting remarks, the snapping tones he so desperately wishes he can give. Pete has no right to tease him, no reason to mock him, and it kills Patrick that he has to play nice. He averts his eyes and takes a breath, searching for an appropriate response. “My, um, my dad and I came here a lot. They’re like family friends. They were more my dad’s friends than anything but—” 

His breath catches on the words, hitches on the  _ came  _ and  _ were _ . He stops short and stares down at the swirling browns of the wooden table, glaring into the uncomfortable resemblance it bears with Pete’s own eyes. He prays Pete won’t notice the way he bites his lip or trembles slightly; he begs for no questions or comments or statements on the obvious heat filling his cheeks. Pete wouldn’t be the first to catch onto the soft stumbling across his words but he might be the first to laugh, to point it out, to use it to his advantage, or, worse, to tear Patrick apart completely.

He might do more than try to steal Patrick’s heart; he could crush it on the first date.

When Patrick dares to glance up, Pete’s frowning in a completely different manner than before.

“Oh,” he says, eyes a bit wide and lips twitching in a nervous smile that catches Patrick off-guard. “I feel like I was a bit rude, then. I’m sorry.”

Patrick’s inclined to describe how Pete was more than a bit rude— ignoring speakers in favor of a text conversation is one of his greatest pet peeves— but he’s too stunned to properly chew him out.

“Um, only a little,” he lies without trying, rubbing the back of his neck with a small frown. “It’s fine, though.”

“But it’s not,” Pete says. Simple but heartfelt, shocking but not entirely unwelcome. Patrick wrinkles his nose but then Pete’s reaching across the table to take Patrick’s hands in his own. “This place is important to you and I disrespected that, I’m sorry.”

Though his expression’s still scrunched in confusion, Patrick’s cheeks burn at the tender smile Pete offers, as shy as before, and he swears his returning smile is more genuine than it’s felt all night. “It’s alright, really, I just—”

Pete’s grin sharpens; his eyes glimmer.

The itching irritation from before crawls across Patrick’s skin without remorse. His hands twitch in Pete’s grip and his eyes narrow.

When Pete’s smiling like he’s gained a point, it feels less like a video game challenge and more like a duel. Patrick’s not battling a character with codes and cheats to be found. There’s no pause or stop or number of lives.

Pete’s eyes— dark and golden all at once, bright with gold but drowning Patrick in lies— paint the image of pawns and kings and queens. This isn’t a childish game; it’s chess to him. Strategy and wit and pieces made to be lost. 

The thought twists Patrick’s guts as his words die in the air.

His words but, more importantly, his pretense that this is someone to love. 

It’s someone to beat.

Pete wants to play a game where every move matters, where cold smiles have warm meanings and empty conversations are more than the words that are heard.

And Patrick?

He’s more than willing— he’s more than  _ capable _ — of playing along.

Sliding into his role is like slipping into lukewarm water as it over his skin with a barely noticed caress. It doesn’t fit but it does cover him completely as he leans forward and gently pulls Pete’s hands to his lips. He brushes a kiss over the knuckles, letting it last— letting it linger. Pete’s eyes widen but Patrick doesn’t look away from the golden shade, skin warm against his lips as he smiles against it.

“Don’t be sorry.” It feels a bit much when he blinks slowly, gazing up through his lashes, but the edge of Pete’s grin dulls enough for him to continue with a slight tilt of his head. “You’re more important, anyway.”

His breath crosses Pete’s skin teasingly— he can tell by the harsh breath Pete sucks in after. He loosens his grip but keeps their hands in place. Pete could pull away if he wanted; he could laugh it off.

No one moves. 

Maybe it’s the lights or maybe it’s his imagination but, Patrick swears, Pete’s eyes darken and his smile drops. 

“I—” He begins only to be cut off by Marissa slamming a tray down on the table beside them.

“Since they’re all appetizers I just brought them out at once,” she says, back turned as Pete snatches his hands away from Patrick. It’s almost guilty or ashamed but his eyes— still so dark, still so evasive— whisper that his actions don’t mean this at all. “Oh, and one of the other waiters told Sami you’re here, Patrick. I think he let slip that you’re on a date? She’s upset you didn’t tell her but she included those fried bananas you like. She’s still not sure if they’ll end up on the menu but she wanted you to have it anyway.”

Patrick’s cheeks feel warm and he’s glad that, if he is blushing, it’s not for something Pete did or said. “She didn’t have to but tell her thanks. I’ll try to come by and see her sometime after tonight. I’m, um, a bit too occupied now but let her know, alright?”

“Yep.” Marissa starts setting out the plates and, at Pete’s overwhelmed expression, Patrick laughs and launches into the familiar position of explaining his favorite dishes. He’s more excitable than he knows he should be and he’s still describing everything even when Marissa’s disappeared.

“ —but I suggest the fried rice,” he says, picking up a spoonful of it. “It’s saltier but I think that’s part of the appeal.” 

It’s with no thought but with every good intention that Patrick sticks the spoon out towards Pete, grains of rice falling to the table as he does so. 

When Pete meets Patrick’s eyes with a soft laugh, there’s everything to decipher. The light in his grin barely reaches his eyes. The golden shades twist with what could be a mocking remark waiting to be said or a soft tease ready to ease the mood. A second passes as Pete flicks his gaze to the spoon, considering. 

Finally, he looks back up to Patrick and lets the spoon find its way into his mouth. 

Patrick had never understood the appeal of feeding others in a romantic sense— it always seemed far too messy or time-consuming— but his mouth dries as Pete’s lips close around the spoon, the utensil shuddering lightly when Patrick pulls it free. He bites his lip as he sets the spoon down, tension increasing with each silent second after Pete swallows. 

“It’s good,” Pete admits though he shakes his head a bit as he speaks. His kind words could be faked— they probably are— but both seem to sigh in relief anyway when Patrick laughs. It’s all pretend, all a charade, but at least it isn’t awkward. Even when Pete licks a stray grain of rice away from his lip— eyes on Patrick, eyes always on Patrick— nothing uncomfortable stirs between them.

_ Keep your guard up _ , Patrick reminds himself as he takes the task of spooning food onto their plates. Pete watches him closely, eyes twinkling like the gold within them is worth something.  _ Don’t fall for his act. _

For the most part, it’s an easy act. Though Pete comments casually on the day’s weather and Patrick brings up the movies in the theater, eating is mostly a solitary activity with little reason to look up or speak.

The best way to distract himself from Pete’s attempts at flirting, however, is by employing his own.

He moves on from insignificant attempts at charm and boyfriend material. Pete’s main plan of attack has seemed to be lingering glances and fond smiles, both actions Patrick would consider beginner moves in any game of chess.

Pete shoots Patrick an alluring glance— complete with sparkling eyes and a tempting turn of the lips— and Patrick takes it upon himself to do him one better. His fingers skim across the table the way they dance along the number of instruments cooped up in his house. Sliding over utensils and brushing against the napkin, he pauses at the small puddle of soy sauce on his plate. Smirking, he lets his finger dip into the sauce and brings it back up to his mouth. Salt brushes across his tongue but it barely matters. He draws it out, letting the weight of his finger press into his bottom lip. Oh, he knows what he’s doing and he’s heard more than enough comments on his mouth from exes and guys at bars. He knows what Pete’s thinking and, if not, Patrick knows how to get him to think it.

As he wipes his hands on a napkin, his tongue flicks over his lips— as slow as before, as cruel as Pete’s smile had been. He ends by sucking his lip into his mouth, releasing it with a grin as cocky as Pete is. 

Pete raises an eyebrow but there’s no denying the intrigue in his eyes or how he’s suddenly leaning forward just a few inches more. 

“Enjoying your night, Patrick?” He asks, running a hand through his hair with a dazzling smile. Dark strands come loose from where they’d been brushed back, resting against tan skin as Pete tries and fails to make them behave. Patrick watches the attempt with an amused smirk of his own. He bites his lip again; it’s an overdone tactic, sure, but it brings Pete’s attention down without a hitch. Patrick would be a fool not to use his greatest weapon. Better to get ahead while he can.

And, from the look Pete’s giving him, he’s certain he’s ahead.

“Not as much as I could be, I assure you.” He scans Pete’s frame, slow and steady even though his hands shake when he crosses his arms. Though Pete’s smile grows, Patrick still sees nothing more than a man foolish enough to try to steal his studio— but Pete doesn’t need to know that.

“Shame,” Pete says. His own arms cross and Patrick’s caught by the promise of muscle beneath dark tattoos, the ink smiling back at him in every distracting way. “Someone as pretty as you should be having all the fun in the world.”

_ With you? Unlikely _ . Patrick bites back the words though he’s sure they show in his eyes when he looks back up. 

His smile shifts from teasing to tender, an action which takes more convincing than most others of the night. Flirting with Pete is easy when he looks as good as he does, a fact Patrick can’t deny no matter how he wants to. But playing nice? Playing his boyfriend? He’s surprised he hasn’t literally ran from the thought.

“Don’t worry,” he says, voice soft. “With you here it’s unlikely I’ll have to worry about that again. You’re great, really.” 

Pete smiles back and Patrick catches no deceit within the curve. The realization brings a greater level of authenticity to his own grin.

Their plates are nearly empty and the place closes in a mere hour or so. It’s the end of the night, the end of the date, and Pete’s the one smiling like he’s starstruck. Pete’s the one giving in.

Patrick never had any doubt he would.

It’s when he’s paid the bill— with a tight smile and sickly-sweet voice reminding Pete that the date was his idea— and they’re preparing to leave that Pete pulls out one final trick.

Fortune Cookies rest in their hands, split with the inner message revealed. They’re standing at the table, Marissa clearing the plates away with a few huffs at their messiness. Patrick pays her no mind for once, reading the fortune with the same giddiness he’s had ever since he was a child.

“Your heart will soon receive what only your heart can need,” he recites. It’s about the studio, he’s sure, and he punctuates the statement with a sharp grin at Pete. “What does yours say?”

Pete glances up from his own paper but says nothing as he pockets it with a knowing smile. Patrick hates the curiosity bubbling up in his gut as he bites into his cookie, unable to fight off the small pout he gives Pete’s silence. 

Maybe it’s the sad turn of his lips or maybe Pete’s playing tricks. Either way, he steps towards Patrick with a soft laugh that dares Patrick to walk away. Pete’s knuckles drift gently down Patrick’s cheek and he leans in close, close, closer still until Patrick sees more golds and browns in his eyes than he ever knew existed in the world. 

Pete’s voice is a whisper, a secret, a clandestine tone meant for Patrick’s ears alone. 

“It was just a silly little phrase about how to get what I want.” 

His hand drops lower and turns, grasping Patrick’s chin with a sharp thread of possession— daring him to pull back, daring him to look away, daring him to do anything other than stare and gasp.

“And I already know how to do just that.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another note, I don't know what the update schedule for this is going to look like but I promise I'll try my best :)
> 
> Let me know what you think so far! I'd love to hear your comments!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trip to the mall with a quick inconvenient stop into some of Patrick's emotions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I've been doing is writing. This fic and Trickster's Wave and another fic that's due later this year and if you think I'm exaggerating about how much writing has taken over my entire schedule, I want you to know that it is 6 am and I just told myself "once I post this chapter I can take a quick nap and then work on another one."
> 
> You don't take naps at six am. Especially when you've been up since eight am of the previous morning.
> 
> Anyway, I am so glad people have been enjoying this story!! It really means a lot and, also, quick shout out to StereoStatic for always having the sweetest comments on whatever I post! As someone who doubts myself way more than I should, their comments are always exactly what I need in order to feel better about whatever I've written. So, thanks! You are absolutely the best and I hope you know it means a ton that you take the time to comment!!
> 
> On with the chapter!

“Official” has never been a term Patrick's felt the need to bring into his dating vocabulary. Past relationships never teetered on the edges of “loves me” and “loves me not”, either party jumping into the first category with no hesitation or reluctance. Too often, Patrick has been the fool taking the plunge but, despite the pain, he can't bring himself to regret the choices he's made. It makes it easier to understand where he and his boyfriend— or, occasionally, girlfriend— stand. While friends update social media statuses and exchange promise rings after a handful of months, Patrick’s relationships are better left unmarked and— for the most part— unremarked. Special to the few who know of it; a secret waiting to be shared with those who matter most.  Patrick’s not a fan of secrets but he does adore when he has something to call his own. 

Perhaps it’s this exact mindset that has him gaping at his phone the next day in his studio, his grip tight on the orange case and muscles tense with the instinct to throw it at the nearest wall.

Now, he abandoned his own Twitter account long ago but he’s not inept by any means. He knows the basics and he understands the importance of such social media. He’d helped his dad set up Facebook pages and had even tried his hand at an Instagram a bit ago. All sites he eventually ended up deactivating but he saw the appeal— more than that, he saw the audience. 

And, like he did with every other celebrity account, he sees the audience watching Pete Wentz’s twitter with an intensity Patrick can only imagine achieving. Millions of people follow the verified business owner— a shiny blue checkmark somehow making him more important than a studio worker, a fact Patrick’s yet to accept— and, thus, thousands have already shared, liked, and responded to his latest tweet.

A tweet with Patrick’s account tagged— a detail Patrick doesn’t want to think of Pete seeking out.

A tweet with the words “official” and “dating” and “boyfriend.” 

A tweet with Patrick pressed closed to Pete in a photo that was supposedly taken just for them.

Pete had suggested the picture after walking Patrick back home from their date the night before. It had been perfectly cliche, the air crisp and sky clear, and Patrick may have played into his own character a little too well as he and Pete held hands in that stupid way Pete had invented. They’d arrived back at Patrick’s house in time for the stars to sit comfortably in the sky, the two illuminated by a moon meant for real lovers and better men. Patrick had wished to escape its beams as soon as possible, grabbing the door handle with a gentle smile and a hushed goodbye.

It was Pete who’d stepped closer and caused Patrick’s breath to catch in his throat. Questions beat like pulses in Patrick’s mind, concerns of how far Pete was willing to go in this bet. Would he kiss him goodbye or say another cocky line? Would he insist on staying the night? Would he give up or would he drag the game out longer than it should be?

“I wanna take a picture. Just for us. Or, I guess, for me,” he’d said instead, smiling sheepishly though nothing could hide the smirk beneath it. “Just to keep me company until I get to see my angel again.”

It sounded like an insult and Patrick had no doubt that it was. Still, he’d nodded and let Pete pull him close against his side. He’d rested his head on Pete’s shoulder and forced a laugh when Pete shouted out, “Cheese!” It had turned out nice, Patrick’s face a bit covered by his hand as he’d tried to hide his laugh behind it, but it looked good. It looked real.

Or, Patrick thinks, staring down as the numbers beneath the photo continue to increase, maybe he’s just hoping for it to seem real. He has no idea what he’ll do if anyone accuses it of being fake.

_ It’s official, I have the best boyfriend in the world. Somehow, this cutie and I ended up dating and I’ve been the happiest man ever since _ , the tweet reads, followed by an obscene amount of heart emojis.  _ @PatrickStump is a treasure and all of you should be jealous that I found him first. _

Patrick doesn’t know whether to be more offended by the number of girls hating him in the replies or the fact that Pete’s tweets have better grammar than the texts he received yesterday.

The real reason for his frustration, though, is far more reasonable. 

Pete’s the owner of a record label— one of the most prominent labels in the industry— and he didn’t seem to think twice before introducing Patrick to his followers as nothing more than a date. Patrick’s an aspiring musician and he knows Pete knows as much— no one with a studio is ever content just running a studio, he’s found. He’s sneaked away to record his own demos, unheard and forever unplayed, and his dad would do the same for a bit. Doesn’t Pete realize he’s tarnishing Patrick’s chances at impressing other musicians or agents or labels when they all follow Pete and the story he’ll tell?

Or, and this thought causes Patrick’s stomach to fill with ice and nerves, perhaps Pete did think this through. Perhaps he saw his followers, the potential allies Patrick may find in them one day, and saw an opportunity to complicate things further. Now, the industry know Patrick as just another one of Pete’s toys and, worse, Pete will be able to spin the break-up story whichever way he likes. Oh, sure, not many people pay attention to the business side of music but it doesn’t matter; the people who do are the ones Patrick would need to impress.

Patrick’s grip tightens further, blunt fingernails pressing into his phone, and he imagines every cruel reason Pete would do this. Is it to make a point? Insurance against a bitter fall out? Future blackmail? Or is he just trying to keep Patrick on edge? If it’s the last one, it’s working better than Patrick would care to admit, his palms sweating as if another date was fast approaching.

Throwing his phone seems like a better idea with each passing second; the sentiment only increases when it starts ringing and declares an incoming call from Pete himself. His thumb hovers over the choice to accept but he doesn’t press down. His throat aches with held back shouts and petty remarks and, he knows, he’ll only be tempted to release them on Pete if he answers the phone.

Somehow, he’s certain that cursing passionately at his supposed boyfriend isn’t the best way to strengthen a relationship, no matter how deserved it is. He rejects the call with only the smallest bit of regret— a hint of emotion which fades the second Twitter pulls back up to mock him with that picture. A picture which, under any other circumstance, would be sweet but also picture Patrick hates with his whole heart— evidence of how low he’s willing to stoop in order to keep Nervous Breakdance in his name.

His phone buzzes and Patrick's stomach drops.

FROM PETE:  _ tried calling. everything alrght? _

Patrick had expected the text, sure, but seeing Pete’s name appear on his screen still has him curling his lips in a sour scowl.

TO PETE:  _ I’m fine. Busy. Can’t talk. _

It should be the end of the conversation but Patrick already knows not to expect anything rational from Pete.

FROM PETE:  _ u mad? _

Patrick’s more than mad and, again, he’s tempted to let Pete know just how upset he is with this entire situation. His hands are so tense they ache as he forces himself to calmly type out a less intense version of his anger.

TO PETE:  _ No, just shocked about the picture you posted. You said it was just for us :/ _ _   
_ TO PETE:  _ I don’t like that so many people know about us now or that you shared it without telling me. It’s not a big deal but making an announcement to the world feels like something we should have talked about beforehand. _ _   
_ TO PETE:  __ It’s alright, though.

Pete takes longer to reply this time, long enough for Patrick to finally loosen his grip and ease the pain settling into his muscles. He doesn’t fool himself with the hope that Pete won’t reply at all— the day Pete passes up the chance to be a dick is far from now, Patrick’s certain— and his stomach turns with all the possible remarks he’ll receive once Pete decides to press send. Something snarky or cruel, perhaps, played off as banter. Maybe he’ll toss an innuendo into his apology, let Patrick know he’s not really sorry for jeopardizing any career Patrick may wish to pursue in music from here on out. Though minutes have passed and Pete’s remained silent, Patrick’s already planning his own defensive reply. He’s sure he can make an insult sound like a compliment if he hides it in enough multisyllabic words. When his phone buzzes with a new message, he grits his teeth and prepares for the worst.

FROM PETE:  _ i still think it can be for us, i just wanted the world to see how pretty my boyfriend is. in any case, im sorry for posting it w/o telling you— i didnt mean to upset u in any manner. i can take it down if you want? youre important to me and thats all that matters. i want to make the relationship work and im grateful that youre able to be so patient with my thoughtlessness. i cant say it wont happen again but i can say i will do my best to make you happy if you continue to give me the chance :) _

It’s not what he was expecting and, worse than that… 

It’s almost convincing? 

Patrick reads through the text, again and again, eyebrows furrowed together as he tries to find the joke or insult within Pete’s words. Typos and poor grammar make it hard to tell how much Pete means but the consistency with his past texting style only serves to lean the entire message towards a more genuine sound. It’s not a copy-pasted apology from the internet and Pete didn’t feel the need to push anything into a fight with formality or accusations. Every typo lessens the idea that there’s an argument to be had and, as nice as it is, it terrifies Patrick.

He can handle someone snarky and sassy and overconfident in their abilities to attract others. But when Pete pretends to be soft-hearted or kind, Patrick finds himself too willing to believe it’s true.

Of course, he thinks with a stern shake of his head, Pete is neither soft or kind. He’s a businessman caught in a strange deal of his own making and Patrick would do well to remember the difference between dreams and reality. He may hope for someone sweet to be his lover but, pretend as he may, Pete will never be that man.

TO PETE:  _ I said it’s fine. It was a cute idea and I’m not as upset as you think  _

It kills him to tuck his irritation away beneath heart emojis of his own as he replies to Pete with a tight smile on his face. 

It’s even worse when he takes his turn in this game and quotes the tweet with a pretty message.

_ I’m the lucky one _ , he writes.  _ See that smile in the photo, @PeteWentz? Trust me, it’s all for you. _

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Patrick doesn’t realize he’s avoiding Pete until three days have gone by and he finds himself wondering if Pete’s avoiding  _ him _ . 

The thought dawns on him early in the morning— or, as early as Patrick allows himself to wake. His phone buzzes, shaking the kitchen table and bumping into the bowl of goldfish crackers he had been picking from, too lazy to prepare a proper breakfast just yet. He checks the screen without a thought, scowling and turning it face down when he sees another notification from Twitter. Since Pete had announced their togetherness, and since Patrick had confirmed it, his amount of followers and interactors has steadily risen. More often than not, his notifications are from bloggers hoping to add to their gossip sections or teens who don’t know much about Pete other than the fact that he looks particularly attractive. Of course, a few have remarked on Patrick’s looks but those aren’t tweets he pays much attention to. He has a boyfriend, after all.

A boyfriend who hasn’t reached out since the day the picture was posted. 

Patrick grabs another handful of goldfish, scowling to himself as his phone buzzes once more— another follower or twitter message, no doubt. Pete had taken up his fair share of notifications through text messages the first day— apologizing and asking for another date and pestering Patrick until he had no choice but to shut his phone off for the rest of the day. It wasn’t that he wanted to ignore Pete but he did need some time to let his anger over the photo run its course. 

To be fair, he’s certain the irritation will last a bit longer than a few days but it would still be nice to know Pete’s trying to play his part in this stupid bet. Patrick can’t always be the one texting first or calling or planning their dates— even if they only have had the one. If Pete expects Patrick to fall for someone incapable of sending a message, he’s even more deluded than Patrick thought.

Of course, he had messaged quite a bit before Patrick shut off his phone. But that doesn’t mean he had to stop… Right? Patrick drops the goldfish back into the bowl and sighs, eyes falling onto his phone. He feels like he’s back in high school, waiting for his crush to call though he has full knowledge that it’s probably not going to happen. 

And, just like in high school, he’s pretty certain it’s his own fault. He takes the phone and turns it over, unsurprised when the screen shows off nothing more than a new like on the tweet he’d posted in response to Pete’s. He was lucky enough that Pete hadn’t retweeted it— god knows how upset Patrick would be if that had happened— but he had liked it and Patrick's quickly learning that this is no better than a simple share. People searching for a story or more details will always find them, no matter how invasive it feels. 

Clearing away the notification, he heads to his messages and scrolls through the few Pete had sent, mouth screwing into an annoyed pursing of the lips when nothing new shows up. All he’s left with is a simple  _ talk 2 u later then _ , a phrase Patrick can’t help but hear unfair amounts of aggression in. He couldn’t care less if Pete’s upset, really, but that doesn’t mean he's not worried about the outcome.

He should text back— set up another date, ask about his day, send an emoji for god’s sake. But he can’t bring his fingers to move and the thought of being the first to text—  _ again _ — causes his skin to crawl.

Just like high school, right? Playing hard to get is always the go-to option; the fact that it makes him feel less desperate is merely a bonus. 

Patrick shuts off the notifications for his phone and sets it down once more. If Pete really wants to win this game, he’s going to have to do more than look good and pretend to be nice. 

Surer than he was a few moments ago, Patrick stands, leaving behind his bowl of goldfish, and decides to get ready for the day. One glance outside warns him of brisk weather, wind tugging gently at leaves in its typical fall fashion. September isn’t the worst month in terms of weather, especially since it’s near the beginning, but it won’t be long before Patrick will be needing more than just a simple sweater to make it through the day. Clear skies aren’t as kind as they first appear, after all, and rain isn’t unheard of here. 

Patrick considers this as he frowns at his old denim jacket. It’s one of his favorites but dreadfully thin and, as the certain chill outside likes to remind him, a weak defense against wind and whatever else the weather may try to toss his way. The holes on the sleeves, worn in over the years, speak out against his plans of bringing it into the winter alone. With a deeper frown than before, Patrick shrugs on the jacket and hurries out of the house, his thoughts on the nearby mall. He’d planned on going to the studio— a second home at this point and racing to earn the first place title— but this will work, as well. Anything to make him feel as if his life is more than the bet he’d made with Pete.

So, when his thoughts turn towards Pete as he steps onto the city bus, he feels rightfully betrayed. 

They’re innocent thoughts, he reminds himself, though they aren’t quite the sort of things he’d think about any friend. It starts simply enough, relief that Pete hadn’t questioned Patrick’s transportation choices the night of their date— he still doesn’t know if he’ll ever get over the hurt of having to sell his car to pay for… Well, to pay for certain things—  but they easily shift to more reckless imaginings. A man with dark skin and darker tattoos sit in the seat across from Patrick and it’s easily all downhill from there.

The biggest shame about this bet is that Pete’s not an unattractive man— a thought Patrick’s had far too often in the small amount of time they’ve known each other. He’s the kind of man who belongs on magazine covers and in high-class bars, smirking in a way meant to stick in hearts like pushpins. If he weren’t so cocky or determined to steal— and, yes, he’s forever going to consider it an attempt at theft— the studio, Patrick wouldn’t feel so guilty each time those delicious tattoos embed themselves in his brain. He wouldn’t feel his stomach turn each time someone with black hair comes into his vision, a turn which he can’t tell apart from nerves or something he refuses to name. Perhaps, if they had met under different circumstances or at another time, Patrick could enjoy the memory of sunset lights turning subdued brown into gold.

But, he reminds himself as he pulls the cord for his stop, Pete is a despicable man and Patrick can’t allow any amount of pretty looks to change that. No matter how often his own mind tries to persuade him. It’s a shallow way to lose and a humiliating way at that. If Pete wants to win Patrick over he’ll do so with more than the assets he was born with. Just like Patrick plans on doing.

Not, he thinks rather smugly, that he’ll ignore his own assets, so to speak, in this game. It’s a thought which eases his guilt of thinking about Pete for so long. 

He exits the bus, thanking the driver, and breathes deeply so to clear his mind. His mind has had enough of Pete for today and, really, he’d rather focus on finding a jacket. After all, it’s Pete’s turn to plan something and Patrick’s certain he’ll be ready for whatever it is.

He takes his time looking through the mall, stopping at whatever smaller store happens to catch his eye. There’s a good clothing shop somewhere near the back, a place he can’t remember the name of but knows is run by a close friend, but he doesn’t mind lingering around one of the new kiosks they’ve set up since his last visit. Even if he doesn’t really need a new pair of sunglasses, the man selling them has a nice smile and charming voice. There’s no hint of mockery or teasing in his tone and it’s more than refreshing to just relax and flirt with someone who’ll actually mean it when they flirt back.

“Nah, man, you gotta try the pretty brown shades. They’ll make that red in your hair pop, swear it,” the seller, a sweet man by the name of Travie, insists. He holds out a ridiculously large pair of sunglasses towards Patrick, waggling them in front of him until Patrick gives in with a fond sigh and takes off the white pair he had been trying on.

“I didn’t know hair color played such a big part in buying glasses,” he jokes, the sarcasm thick enough for Travie to laugh and knock the pair of sunglasses lightly against Patrick’s shoulder.

“Well, someone oughta teach ya, I guess,” he says, eyebrow arched. “Can’t have you wandering around matching light shades with that Snow White complexion you've got going on.” 

Patrick laughs, biting his lip at the end of it as he finally takes the pair Travie’s been holding out. He waits to put them on, playing with them as he smiles up at him. “If I didn’t know better I would think you’re offering to be the teach— oh my  _ god! _ ”

A pair of arms wraps tightly around Patrick’s waist, stiff and sudden and resulting in the most undignified sound Patrick’s ever heard himself make. He drops the sunglasses as he twists, too focused on escaping his assailant to laugh at the sight of Travie fumbling to catch them.

“Get off me, you idiot, what the— oh.” He relaxes— or maybe he deflates entirely— when his eyes turn to see gold staring back at him. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Hey, Patrick,” Pete says, refusing to loosen his grip around Patrick as he hooks his chin over his shoulder. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I— yeah.” Though his body’s relaxed from the realization that he’s not under a direct attack, his hands are still tightened into fists and his smile twitches as he curses himself for stopping to flirt. If he had just hurried to buy the jacket and left, if he had simply gone to the studio like he’d planned, he wouldn’t have had to put up with Pete’s horrible smile so close to his face. He doesn’t mind being surprised— he’d expected Pete to try to catch him off guard, after all— but, god, does Pete need to be holding him like this? “Didn’t wan-  _ expect _ to see you, either.” 

He tries, he swears he tries, to keep from glaring but Pete’s raised eyebrow suggests he doesn’t quite succeed at this endeavor.

“You two, uh, know each other?” Travie asks and, if the hesitant tone of his voice is anything to go by, Patrick is pretty sure he’s going to have to kill Pete for ruining his chances here. 

“Y-Yeah?” Patrick offers, turning back to look at Travie. “We’re, well, this is Pete and—”

“I’m his boyfriend.” Patrick doesn’t have to turn to see the cruel light in Pete’s eyes; he can tell by his voice alone that the look he’s sending Travie isn’t anything kind. “So I guess I should be the one asking if you know each other.” 

If Patrick had any doubts about Pete’s intentions here, Travie’s widened eyes confirm the glare he’s most certainly receiving. “No, dude, sorry. I just—” His eyes flick towards Patrick, wounded and more than a bit upset. “I thought—”

“Yeah, I know.” Pete’s hold on Patrick tightens and it’s only the soft sound of people passing by that keeps Patrick’s grunt from being too obvious. “You thought wrong.” 

Patrick rests his hands over Pete’s, pressing his fingers as a silent warning for him to stop, and looks away from Travie’s accusing gaze, cheeks flaming and breaths heavy. Apologies roll across his tongue but he decides to ignore them; the rage asking him to dig his nails into Pete’s skin is far more interesting, anyway.

He’d known the bet would be a pain— what part of putting up with Pete isn’t?-- but this is leading him to thoughts he knows would land him in the closest prison.

“Well, I… I have customers to help,” Travie says, words flailing through the air weakly. He doesn’t sound half as embarrassed as Patrick feels but it still stings when Travie turns without another word. Patrick takes another deep breath and reminds himself that he doesn’t actually have a boyfriend and that he didn’t do anything wrong and, god, if Pete tightens his hold one more time Patrick’s going to hit him.

“Let’s go,” Pete says, finally releasing Patrick and leading him away from the kiosk. Patrick follows reluctantly, fighting the urge to look back at Travie, and swallows down all the insults and fighting words crawling up his throat. It’s hard, though, to keep his temper in check when Pete leans against a wall a few stores down with a smile suggesting he did nothing wrong. “Sorry about all that, I get a bit territorial. And it doesn’t help that I haven’t heard from you. I’ve missed you, you know.”

It all sounds like a taunt in Patrick’s mind and it takes everything for him not to take the bait. He shrugs, stiff and forced, and looks everywhere but Pete’s eyes. “You could've called. I… I missed you, too, and I was worried when I didn’t get any more messages or anything.”

Pete’s smile drops and he pushes off from the wall, eyebrows pinched together. “I thought you wouldn't want to hear from me. I mean, you were obviously upset about that picture and rightfully so. I didn’t think about how badly that could affect you in the future, especially as someone interested in the music industry.”

Another taunt, another mocking remark Patrick takes with a feigned laugh and red-hot surge of anger. “It’s nothing, Pete. It’s just a picture of me and my boyfriend and, anyway, I said it’s—”

“It’s not fine,” Pete says, hands landing on Patrick’s shoulder and forcing him to look up. It’s not fair when his eyes find Pete’s, nothing more than a cheat when he finds he can’t look away from the soft brushes of concern within them. “I don’t know much about you but music’s obviously a big part of your life. You own a studio, for god’s sake! I didn’t mean to endanger any future you might have in that and, I promise, if you ever need any help you can always come to me. I’m not as bad as you may think.” 

His words lack every bitter, jagged edge Patrick had expected and their absence leaves his flushing for an entirely different reason than before. He turns away before thinking of a response, eyes focused on the mannequins displayed in the store across from them. Emotionless, faceless plastic. He imagines he can internalize the same traits as Pete’s hand lingers on his shoulder, softer than it has any right to be. 

Because, he reminds himself, Pete has no right to seem so kind. Not when he’s trying to take the one thing Patrick cares for most in this world and certainly not when he’s subjecting Patrick to such humiliation while doing it. Patrick swallows down any answer he might have given— reassurances that it’s fine, gratitude for such a scripted apology— and merely shrugs his shoulders once more.

Pete steps closer, an action Patrick hates but doesn’t consider unexpected. He moves to Patrick’s side and a bit before him, eyes searching to catch Patrick’s and greatly underestimating how determined Patrick is not to fall into that trap again.

“Patrick, I’m sorry,” Pete pleads, hand falling back to his side. “Let me… Let me buy you something to make up for it. Anything in the store; anything you want.” 

It’s too grandiose a request to be genuine but Patrick’s lips quirk up all the same as he chances a glance into Pete’s eyes: as gold as ever but not quite so intriguing when he plays his part so poorly.

“I’m only here for a jacket,” he says, offering no further explanation. Pete flounders for a few glorious seconds, eyes flashing in irritation with Patrick’s refusal to be the coy sweetheart he had been on their date. Patrick revels in the exposure and turns fully to face Pete. 

“I guess… Well, then, I guess don’t really need to buy you anything, after all,” Pete says after regaining his composure, smiling brightly and as if he has a secret to share. Patrick lifts an eyebrow, unspeaking, and pulls back slightly from Pete’s responding laugh. “Everyone knows the number one perk of having a boyfriend is having jackets to steal.” 

“You… What?” Patrick asks, eyes widening as Pete slips off the leather jacket he’d been wearing. He reaches around Patrick to wrap it around his shoulders and Patrick’s torn between moving away and staying still. He finds himself giving in instead, hating himself as he slips his arms into the sleeves and gazes curiously at Pete. A laugh or joke must be coming— after all, Patrick’s certain he looks fairly ridiculous with the leather and denim jackets layered over the cardigan he’d tossed on— but Pete only smiles, as warm as the oversized jacket wrapped around Patrick’s frame.

“You look good in it,” Pete says, adjusting it until the sleeves fit just right around Patrick’s shoulders and elbows. He pulls back when he’s done, admiring his work. “I might even say you look better with that on than I do.” The words come with a smirk, a tell-tale sign that this— like everything else— is part of Pete’s game. Patrick paints his own smile on over the confused expression he knows is contorting his face and prepares to retaliate with a flirtation of his own.

“Well, would it be fair to say that you absolutely look better with it o—”

“Patrick?” The voice is loud, pleasantly surprised, and horribly familiar. 

It’s a voice that has Patrick freezing in his spot once more.

“Patrick, oh my god, it is you!” Brendon bounds over towards him, still working on buttoning up his work shirt with fumbling hands and a friendly smile. “Wow, god, it’s been a bit. How’ve you been?”

“I… I’ve been good,” Patrick says, eyes flicking uneasily between Brendon and Pete as Pete takes on a look that’s not too different from the one he’d been giving Travie earlier. “Uh, this is… Brendon, this is my boyfriend, Pete. We just… I was actually about to head to Gee’s shop for a new jacket but, I guess, um, something came up and I don’t need one after all. You still working there?” Patrick’s tone is too hurried even to his own ears, his eyes wide and begging for Brendon to take the conversation topic he’s given and leave it at that.

Of course, meaning as well as he always does, Brendon either ignores or doesn’t see the cue from Patrick to leave him alone.

“Oh, yeah.” Brendon steps closer, eyes scanning Patrick in that cautious way everyone seems to do whenever they see him now. “Hey, I heard what happened and I’m… I’m sure you’re sick of hearing it but I’m sorry. I wanted to fly out but things got busy at home and my folks were sure you’d prefer to be alone anyway and, well, are you… How are you doing, really?”

It’s everything Patrick didn’t want to hear, from the sympathetic tone to the neverending question on his emotional or mental state. He’s fine and he’s been fine and he’s not going to let anyone pretend that he’s not. 

Still, strong thoughts can’t stop the sudden tear of muscles and bone snapping in his chest as thoughts he locked away are suddenly dredged up by a simple statement—  _ I heard what happened _ . It can’t keep his breath in his lungs, not when it feels as if his lungs, too, have been cut upon by the few words Brendon chose, the accidental wounds he’d made when he said “folks” and “home” and “alone.” 

And nothing stops the painful heat he feels on his cheeks when he makes the mistake of looking to Pete— a stranger to this situation and an enemy in everything else. Pete, who stares and lets a peculiar and confused smile— one Patrick doesn’t like at all— touch the corners of his mouth.

No beliefs that he’s fine and alright and over it can keep him from hating this moment with every fiber of his being.

“I’m fine,” he snaps anyway, praising himself for keeping his voice from breaking or shaking or giving anything away. “I… We have to go now. It... It was nice seeing you but we should get going.”

Maybe he’s a great liar or maybe he’s not. Either way, Brendon nods sharply and backs away. 

“Of course,” he says. Patrick looks at passing strangers and swallows thickly but he can still feel the heavy weight of Brendon’s and Pete’s eyes on him. “I should head to work, anyway. Take care of yourself, alright?” He’s gone, nearly running down the mall, and Patrick’s glad he doesn’t have to make a promise he’s not sure he can keep. Take care of himself? It’s not something Patrick’s really thought of lately.

“What… What was that about?” 

Patrick hates Pete for asking and he hates the stupid worried tone of his voice. He hates how Pete’s looking at him like he’s something to be pitied and he hates how Pete doesn’t know how much worse he’s making everything by being here. He hates Pete for trying to take his studio. He hates Pete for gambling with the one thing Patrick has left to protect in his life and he hates that he agreed to such a stupid bet and he hates that he has to be okay with it and he hates Pete Wentz.

Most of all, though, he hates that he can’t do anything other than lean into Pete and hope Pete plays the part he promised to play.

“It was nothing,” Patrick whispers, grabbing onto Pete’s shirt with both hands and pressing his face into his shoulder. “Don’t… Don’t worry about it.” 

Pete— horrible, wicked, cruel and cocky Pete— does what only he’s supposed to do-- something Patrick hates himself for wanting him to do. 

He plays the part of the boyfriend and wraps his arms around him in a hug Patrick hadn’t known he’d needed until he was presented with the option. 

“Alright. Just promise me you’re alright,” Pete says. Patrick’s breath trembles as he holds him tighter and closer— not in the possessive or mocking way he’d done before but… differently. Kinder. Softer.

Better.

Patrick tells himself it doesn’t mean anything as he accepts it. He’s calmer in Pete’s arms only because it’s been so long since someone’s held him like this, since anyone’s pressed soft lips into his hair and murmured reassurances meant only for Patrick to hear. He’s practically touch-starved and that’s the only reason Pete’s arms feel so nice around him; he’s crumbling inside and that’s why Pete’s voice sounds so soothing. 

Because, of course, Pete can only be his best when Patrick’s entire world is breaking. He proved that much when he threatened to take the studio and, now, more than ever, Patrick knows he has to fight his hardest to keep that from ever happening.

“We should have another date,” he says, abrupt but uncaring of how he may sound. He just needs another chance to make Pete fall for him, another moment to show he’s willing to do anything for his studio. He turns, pressing into Pete’s neck and keeping his voice soft. “You can plan it. Just… Just let me spend some time with you. I’ll be alright if you help me.”

Pete isn’t as brash as he could be— as he should be in the face of Patrick’s weakness. He’s hesitant and, when he speaks, he almost sounds confused.

“Okay,” he says in a voice that’s half-worried and half-nothing. “If it’ll make you happy, I’ll do anything. I promise I’ll do whatever I can to keep a smile on your face.”

It’s faked and it’s wrong and it’s part of the game they’re playing. But just this once, just at this moment where it’s needed and appreciated and everything Patrick longs to hear, Patrick accepts it.

Just this once, he pretends someone truly cares. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I can't wait to pass out later in the day because I thought I'd be able to survive off a quick nap at six am.
> 
> Anyway, thank you to everyone who's taken the time to read, leave kudos, or comment! I love you all so much and truly hope you're liking the story so far :) 
> 
> If you'd like, you can also come to talk to me at hum-my-name on Tumblr <3
> 
> Oh! And here's something fun (maybe, I don't know). These chapters don't have titles and it is actually for a (good?) reason (aka it's me thinking I'm clever). I'll say why in a later chapter but, for now, just wanted to point it out!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another date and a few confessions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who read and commented last chapter!! It always means a ton to see support for a fic and I really hope that you enjoy this update, as well. Haha, reading your thoughts on my writing makes the late-night updates (it's 3am here, whoops) worth it :)
> 
> So, without further distraction, enjoy this chapter! And, please, leave a comment to let me know what you think :)

Dating Pete, to Patrick, is a bit like trying to stumble his way to the coffee machine in the first few moments after waking up. There’s a clear goal— a rewarding one, at that— and obvious instructions. He knows the way to the kitchen, it’s a path he’s practically memorized, and he’s known how to make coffee ever since he realized how much he needs it. It’s a simple action— or, it would be if it weren’t meant to be done in the morning. Because, then, the trail to the coffee pot is far too long and Patrick’s muscles sluggishly fight to pull him through the stifling haze of sleep clinging to his mind. Eyes barely open and yawning with every other step, Patrick often finds himself stopping at the halfway point with the desire to turn around and crawl back into bed. Only the promise of his morning coffee washes away these thoughts— even then, it’s all done with a bitter reluctance.

So, when Pete sends Patrick details about their date later that day— a few hours after leaving Patrick to his mall shopping adventures— Patrick takes a few deep breaths and reminds himself that this entire thing was his own idea and, more than that, there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. A very dim and flickering light in the shape of his studio’s sign but it’s a light nonetheless and the last thing he’s going to do is let Pete put it out.

Pete’s text is vague, though, and tells Patrick nothing more than a time and address. Not even the name of a place— an address. Patrick could look it up but his phone’s battery is already more than halfway drained and he shudders at the thought of being left alone with Pete and a dead phone. So, it seems, he’ll go with the surprise factor Pete so obviously wants to have. 

He bites his tongue is frustration as he makes his way out of the mall and back towards the bus stop. He hadn’t ended up buying anything and had instead spent his time in the back of a music shop, trying out guitars and drums and checking over his shoulder for Pete each time the clerk seemed to flirt with him. He was a cute guy and nicer than he had to be but Patrick couldn’t bring himself to return the flirtations— not after what happened with Travie. 

And, yes, he did take the long way out of the store just to avoid the sunglasses kiosk.

Still dressed in the simple clothes he visited the mall in— a loose t-shirt hidden beneath a cardigan and denim jacket, tight black jeans paired with his boots and a cap— he gets on the bus and waits to arrive at Pete’s mystery location. He redoes the laces on his boots out of nerves and toys with the sleeves of Pete’s leather jacket still hanging onto his body. It’s not a bad look, he supposes, though he does wish he had the good sense to go back home and switch out the cap for one of his more favorable fedoras.

He wishes it, even more, when he steps off the bus at the address and finds himself staring at a multi-storied, glistening and gleaming restaurant with a name he can’t pronounce. Something Italian. Something intimidating. Something  _ expensive _ .

Suddenly, his morning exhaustion metaphor seems to be an understatement. Staring up at a restaurant he’d only walked by in the past— bitterly holding onto the knowledge that he’s far below the targeted customer group— he feels a bit more like he’s in an obstacle course designed to test all his nerves. Couples wander into the building without the hesitation he feels so deeply in his bones and, as he takes in their tuxes and flowy dresses, his heart beats with the same shape of fear he’s only felt in nightmares.

He takes a few steps forward, more reluctant than he’s ever been. Perhaps he read the address wrong? Maybe it’s all a joke? Pete knows Patrick’s studio isn’t exactly bringing in the best business; not even he could be so cruel to bring him somewhere so far out of his price range and—

Nope. 

The way one’s eyes are drawn straight to a car crash, Patrick’s land on Pete leaning against the wall beside the door. He’s not too formally dressed— thank god— but his outfit is still nicer than Patrick’s. Back in a sleek black t-shirt and black skinny jeans, a dark leather jacket tossed over his shoulders— because, of course, the asshole would have more than one of the same leather jacket— he’s dressed perfectly. Even his smirk seems specifically chosen for the occasion. Patrick rolls his eyes at the cocksure expression but can’t help the anxious way he tugs at the hem of his shirt, swallowing nervously when his fingers poke through a hole near the bottom.

“Hey,” Pete says once Patrick’s made the arduous journey towards him. “You’re still wearing the jacket.”

_ And so are you _ , Patrick barely refrains from saying.

“I like it,” he says instead, the lie too heavy for the small size of the words. “And, I mean, I don’t let good clothing go to waste.”  _ I also made the mistake of staying at the mall because some stupid part of my mind thought we’d be going somewhere reasonable. _

“Alright, then.” Pete smiles, the expression like he’s waiting for a joke to sink in. Patrick shifts his weight at the sight, determined not to seem awkward or embarrassed. “Well, it took a bit of pleading but I did manage to get some reservations. Ready to go in?”

Patrick doesn’t do more than nod but it seems to be more than enough for Pete. He takes Patrick’s hand— still holding it in that strange position he came up with— and leads him in. 

The determination to remain unembarrassed lasts a total of three minutes. 

The thing is, Patrick’s not poor or anything. Sure, he’s had his fair share of financial troubles recently but he’d be lying to himself if he ever tried to feel bad about it. He has a job and he can pay for what he needs and, usually, what he wants without too much of a problem. If it’s something bigger, he’ll need to save up but who doesn’t? He’s not like Pete, someone who can apparently get reservations into one of the city’s nicest restaurants or afford multiples of the same jacket. Patrick considers himself practical, frugal, and, well, the point is that  _ he’s not poor _ .

But when people raise their eyebrows at him as he and Pete walk by their tables, when even the waitress does a double-take at the differences between the two men she’s seating, he almost feels like he should be.

They’re seated near the back of the room on the first floor, next to stairs leading to a noisy upper lounge. Shades of gold coat the room, covering everything but the red tablecloths and various pictures depicting celebrity patrons on the walls. Lights hang in the shape of mini chandeliers; a few candles, unlit and cliche, rest comfortably in the center of the table. 

It’s all too beautiful to be enjoyable; it’s too lovely to ignore, though it doesn't keep Patrick from trying.

As Pete orders drinks and appetizers, clearly comfortable with the menu and setting, Patrick toys with his napkin and tries to imagine how to turn this into a positive. Pressed onto the stunning backdrop of golden brilliance, Patrick’s typical clever strategies become nothing more than empty screams— mere attempts to paint himself in fool’s gold, a trick of the light rather than the prize he’d been attempting to play. His heart pounds in his chest, hot and cold alternating with each beat, and his palms begin to sweat. New problems to face, more undesirable traits to hide.

“ —trick?” Pete asks, apparently for a second or third time. Patrick looks across the table and frowns when he’s greeted with yet another shade of gold. “You’ve been quiet. What’s wrong?”

Concern colors Pete’s tone and eyes, his eyebrows creased together as he considers Patrick’s silence. Patrick watches him with a curious gaze of his own, taking in the worry he hears and sees. Again, he doesn’t know if he believes it or not, but he’s absolutely sure of one thing: he doesn’t want to believe it. 

“I just… I mean…” Patrick trails off, incapable of keeping himself from glancing towards the few others staring at him. His jeans, plucked from the floor this morning and left unwashed for the better part of a week, suddenly itch with the knowledge that they’re too dirty, too tight, too immature for a place like this. He pulls at the brim of his hat, ears poking out and sweat causing his hair to stick uncomfortably to the fabric. His face feels red, his ears burn, and he can’t seem to spit out the lie he needs. “Why didn’t you tell me where we were going?” 

His voice is too quiet for his liking and the anxious tone is almost too honest. He doesn’t meet Pete’s eyes but the confusion in the answer is more than enough to have him gritting his teeth in frustration.

“I wanted to surprise you with something nice,” Pete says. “You were clearly upset earlier and I wanted to bring a smile to your face.”

“Right, and making me look like a fool is a great way to do that.” Patrick bites his tongue but it’s too late, the bitter words filling the air between them with an echoing sound. He’s losing his cool too fast and he doesn’t know who to blame. Pete’s the one who brought him into such a humiliating situation but shouldn’t Patrick have enough calm to turn away from it? Shouldn’t he overlook the glares he’s receiving?

Sitting in a fancy restaurant with a frustratingly attractive man looking at him as if he cares is like a dream— the fact that he’s only here because Pete planned it, though, turns all of it into the steady drip of a nightmare into his reality. If there’s one thing he can’t stand, it’s embarrassment— embarrassment he can’t control, if he’s being specific. There’s no way to defend himself, no way to prove that all their thoughts are wrong, and it’s killing him to sit here and pretend it’s all okay.

“Are you serious?” Pete asks, his voice too blunt for Patrick to ignore. He looks up, expecting anger or irritation at his sulky words but, instead, Pete moves forward with the slightest tilt of his head. “You’re the most attractive person in the room.”

“Oh, please, you’re just saying that.” He means to sound coy, like he’s fishing for compliments as part of a scripted flirt routine. The words, though, come out jumbled and raw, tangled like the nerves and frustrations in his gut and head. With no way to save himself from the sentence he’d spat out, Patrick gives into it entirely. With lips pressed tightly together and cheeks flushing a violent red, he dares Pete to tell him he’s wrong.

When Pete reaches for Patrick’s hand and lifts his fingers to his lips, Patrick struggles not to pull away or cringe. Pete’s overacting and the uncertainty on his face gives it all away; he can’t tell what Patrick’s playing at, if this self-deprecation is a strategy or something more. If it weren’t for the heat on his cheeks and in his chest, Patrick would laugh at how  _ this  _ is what’s thrown Pete the most.

“You’re perfect,” Pete says, promises, lies. “You have no idea how lucky I am to be sitting here with the most handsome man in the building— No, the most handsome man in the whole damn city! I wanted to show you off and you deserve to be shown off. What can possibly be so foolish about any of that?”

Patrick narrows his eyes at Pete, trying to figure out if he’s being mocked. It’s one thing to have Pete lie so blatantly to him; poking fun at the issue would only make things worse. He looks away before Pete can recognize the upset expression on his face, placing an easy smile on his lips as he plays along.

“Oh, come on. Everyone here knows I’m the lucky one,” he says, trying to force himself to meet Pete’s eyes and failing miserably. Instead, he finds the tablecloth and pulls his hand away so he can tap his nerves out onto it. “Loving and lovely… You’re perfect and it shows in everything you do. Maybe that’s what all the staring is for.”

“Staring?” For a second time tonight, Pete's caught off-guard. His voice pitches up and Patrick looks in time to see him glance around, finally realizing the scathing eyes of those around them. His smile drops into a harsh line, his mirth exploding into something cruel as he meets the gaze of a woman watching Patrick’s fiddling with a particularly blatant glare. He looks like a protective boyfriend, all fury and defense, but Patrick knows the truth: he’s unsettled he has to be seen with someone like Patrick and, worse, he’s upset that people have noticed.

Pete’s jaw twitches and, when he looks back to Patrick, the concern in his eyes has returned with greater intensity. Back in the part they’re playing, Patrick’s sure. Back as the doting partner. “Why do you care about that? Why would you… They don’t matter, you know. You won’t see them again after tonight and none of them would ever try to say anything to your face. Why would you let such irrelevant judgments ruin our night?”

Pete doesn’t understand, and how could he? How could someone born into wealth realize the cruelties the world lays in front of those with less, those always calculating and saving and working to keep what they have? How can he even pretend to have advice for Patrick?

And how can Patrick explain it to him without ruining his chances at victory tonight? There’s no strategy for this moment and there’s certainly no room to flirt or joke around. Only a few options make themselves known, none of them favorable. 

Lies or the truth. Hope Pete won’t see through false words or… Or hope he understands honest ones.

In the end, it’s not much of an option at all.

“It’s not… it’s not just them. Or, I mean, it is but…” He sighs, reminding himself of why he's doing this. Vulnerability will let Pete think he has an upper hand; sharing secrets will trick him into thinking they’re closer than they are. “I was... I was bullied. A lot, as a kid. In pretty much every school year. I mean, it wasn’t that bad? But things like, like… I didn’t have many friends because people would spread stupid rumors or… or make me seem like this disgusting person to hang out with. So, I guess, what I'm trying to see is that the same fear of rejection or judgment or whatever is still there.” He pauses as the waitress comes by again with their waters and the bread Pete had ordered. Pete thanks her with a soft smile and something in Patrick’s chest lights on fire at the disregard for his emotions at this moment. He shuts his eyes, presses his hands against them, and reminds himself to breathe even as Pete orders for the both of them.

It’s stupid to still be so affected by high school bullies, to hold onto every insult tossed his way in the lunchroom or want to scream at memories of being tripped in the halls. It wasn’t bad, really, but it still hurts to remember. There was no one to reassure him, no one to vent to when he came home. Hell, there hasn’t been anyone to vent to for years— this is… He swallows and shoves his hands further into his eyes as punishment.

This is the first time he’s actually told anyone about this. The first time he’s opened up his vault of secrets and it’s to a man who hates him. Brilliant, really.

His thoughts scatter away in different directions when he hears the sudden sound of plates being moved around. He drops his hands and watches as Pete serves him a plate of bread and butter. Eyes kind and smile hesitant, he waits for Patrick to take the plate before speaking. “Sorry. But you were saying?”

Right. Patrick was saying and, suddenly, he’s not so sure he wants to say much more.

But when does he ever get what he wants?

“It’s nothing,” he says, emotions snapping back towards his chest as if it can revoke all the words he’d said before. “I’ve gotten better and, I mean, I’m not self-loathing by any means. But when you spend most of your life being told that you’re less than the rest, some that is bound to stick.”

Pete frowns and it almost looks real. “Did you ever have any support?”

With no friends? With older siblings already in college? With a mom across the country as the result of a messy divorce? With a dad who—

“My dad,” Patrick says, surprising even himself at the surety of his voice. “I mean, I didn’t tell him and I don’t know if he knew but he always… He’s always been great at helping me forget that other people didn’t like me.” Somehow, the words make it out before his throat begins to close up. He takes a long drink of water to keep from gasping for air.

Everything hurts but, at the same time, everything’s suddenly numb. His heart twists and he imagines a tearing sound to go along with it; he’s certain he’s going to die and it only makes everything worse.

Pete’s hand finds his and Patrick squeezes tighter than he wants to, holds on with more meaning than he wants to convey. With Pete’s eyes on him, he tries to figure out if these are the right moves. Will this make Pete love him, want him, care for him? Will this bring him closer to his goal or will it drag him further away, kicking and screaming like a child pulled from the sound of a flatline in a hospital hallway?

It’s a horrible comparison— tasteless and over-exaggerated— but it’s the only one his mind insists on conjuring up. 

“Hey,” Pete says. Patrick doesn’t know how many times he’s said it at this point. “Hey, listen to me, okay? I can’t… I don’t understand what any of that must have been like. I’ve been lucky but… I can promise I’ll do the same as your dad. No one will ever treat you that way… No one will even think of hurting you while I’m around. Okay? I promise.”

Oh, he promises? Patrick’s certain Pete’s promises are nothing more than ink on contracts, meant only to bring him an advantage. 

“Really?” Patrick asks anyway, buying time as he connects his mind back with the situation at hand. He can’t change the past but he can protect its memory-- and that’s done by playing his part exactly the way it needs to be played. 

Pete’s eyes— gold and glimmering— find Patrick’s; he smiles brilliantly in a twisted way that makes Patrick think his lips are missing the familiarity of a smirk.

“Really,” Pete says— and Patrick smiles back because he knows it’s not true.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

The atmosphere between the two of them doesn’t change as a result of the open emotions so much as it shifts just a bit. Whether it’s to the right or left— right or wrong, up or down— Patrick can’t say. They eat in an uncomfortable silence; bits of conversation appear but they’re all too tiny, almost delicate, and Patrick would be a liar if he called it a dialogue at all.

Still, it’s as normal as it can be for two men trying to make the other fall in love. Flirtations feel meaningless and nerves twist in Patrick’s gut from too many stressful factors colliding at once. The fear of what he’d said before coming back to bite him, the realization that this whole thing might not be as simple as he’d imagined. Memories, too, rest ominously on the edges of his mind and the distraction is almost worse than the actual experience he’s going through.

Perhaps the most upsetting bit of it all, though, is that Pete’s appeared kinder in the time that’s passed. His promise lingers in the air next to the lights, illuminated in that gold sheen he always seems to carry with him. He smiles and he listens and he promises a thousand more lies before the night is through. 

“I’ll take you to every fancy spot in the city. You deserve nice things.”

“I love to see you smile. I’m going to try to make you smile more.”

“I want to take care of you.”

“I would never try to hurt you.”

“Promise?” Patrick asks after each ridiculous remark, stomach bubbling as if he’d been drinking champagne instead of pretty words. 

Pete smiles— sometimes awkwardly, sometimes proudly. “Promise.”

It’s a good act, really, and Patrick has to give him credit for how often Pete pulls it off. Still, in the end, it’s just an act and Patrick knows better than to believe it.

The waitress comes by with the check, grinning at Pete and ignoring Patrick the way she’d done most of the night. Patrick doesn’t mind when Pete smiles back or when he spends too long joking with her. Looking past the curtains is always the best way to disillusion oneself, after all.

“Your service was amazing. We’ll definitely be back.”

“Promise?” The waitress asks. Coy and teasing, nothing like the way Patrick says it.

Pete smiles all the same. “Promise.”

Patrick looks to the table, an aching grin hanging off his lips. Yes, it’s best to remind himself that this is all just an illusion he willingly walked into. And, he thinks as Pete turns that dazzling smile towards him, it’s impossible to trick someone who doesn’t wish to be fooled.

“Ready to go?” Pete asks. Patrick stands with a gentle nod.

“Yeah,” he says. “Let’s go.”

Pete offers to walk him to his car— apparently, he’s playing the gentleman tonight— but the polite facade slips when Patrick admits that he takes the bus. He recovers quickly, hiding furrowed eyebrows with a swipe of his hand through his hair, and suggests he walk Patrick to the bus stop instead.

“I would drive you home myself,” he says— another lie, Patrick’s sure. “But I have an important client to call as soon as possible. You understand?”

The way Pete doesn’t understand how it feels to be looked down upon, Patrick can’t understand the weight of business held on his shoulders at all times. He nods anyway, swinging their hands between them as they walk. 

It does him no good, though, to merely walk with nothing but silence as their companion; every second needs to be put to use in this game of love and wits, and he’s not so willing to put the few moments he has tonight to waste. Especially not after the fiasco of childhood troubles he’d admitted to.

With this in mind, he decides his first goal is to clear that from the night in a proper manner.

“Hey,” he says, eyes straight ahead as he addresses Pete. “I, um, I wanted to apologize for going off on that bullying tangent earlier. I don’t want you to think I make a habit of spilling my tragic backstory at the drop of a hat and, well, I definitely didn’t mean to bore you with it. Or, I mean, make things weird. It’s not important and I didn’t mean to make it seem like it was.”

Pete stops in the middle of the sidewalk, yanking Patrick to a halt beside him. After nearly tripping— and mentally cursing Pete for causing him to do so— Patrick turns to face him. 

If Pete plans on making a big deal of the apology, Patrick might have to hit him. He doesn’t say sorry as often as he should so Pete would be better off considering himself lucky he got one— no matter how ingenuine it was— and move on.

Instead, he frowns and pulls Patrick closer.

“Don’t apologize,” he says. “I like getting to know you better. Isn’t that the point of this?”

Patrick’s certain his eye is twitching. “The point of this?”

“Of dating, right?”

Dating— the word lifts through the air like gossamer, a lovely sign of something darker. He and Pete aren’t dating, not really, and Patrick hates how he has to say that they are.

“Right.” His statement doesn’t sound nearly as pretty as Pete’s did, forced out and stubborn. He bites his tongue and looks away, the weight of Pete’s eyes on him too much to handle under the dusted blue of the early evening sky.

Pete laughs lowly and Patrick hates the sound. How can Pete have so much control? How is any of this fair? He never shows an ounce of worry over what to say or how to act; he plays with charm and suave attitudes as if he invented them. Everything comes naturally, from the stunning brilliance of his golden eyes to the comforting sound of his voice.

Patrick hates it. With every fiber of his being, he hates it. 

How can he not? Patrick’s been planning every word, every gesture, every thought miles before a conversation begin; Pete, on the other hand, shows up to every date without a clear plan and still manages to keep up with everything Patrick throws at him.

Patrick’s been fighting like he has everything to lose and that’s made him sloppy; Pete’s fighting like he has nothing to lose and, Patrick knows, it’s because he doesn’t. 

And Patrick hates it.

As if aware of these thoughts, Pete laughs once more and leans towards him.

Patrick’s heartbeat is a hard, toneless Morse code high up in one side of his throat as Pete runs his thumb over Patrick’s knuckle. He tries to find a sign that he’s getting through, proof that none of this is going to waste, but Pete’s smile gives nothing away.

Patrick knows he’s doing better than he feels right now— he hates Pete and he knows he won’t fall for him— but it means nothing if Pete doesn’t find a reason to love or even want him. Patrick just wants to see something real from him, something genuine. He needs to see if he’s gotten through at all. 

The bus stop isn’t far and Patrick knows he’ll have no time to make a move if they start walking again.

He just needs one thing to say; he needs something that will stick.

He finds Pete’s eyes and, for once, the gold doesn’t seem to taunt him. It curls around his vision with warmth and promise and hope. It stills his thoughts and swallows his words, pausing time as Patrick tries to form the perfect compliment.

Slowly, he lifts a hand to Pete’s face and rests it on his cheek, a thumb beneath Pete’s eye.

“Has anyone ever told you how pretty your eyes are?” He asks, sounding breathless. “The first time I saw them I thought they were gold. And, you know? Now I’m kinda certain that they are. I could spend forever staring at them if you let me.”

For a moment, no one moves; for a second, no one breathes. As Pete’s eyes widen in an unnamed emotion, Patrick has no sense of time passing— he has no sense of where he is or who he is. 

All he knows is gold.

And then Pete blinks and the feeling passes so quickly that Patrick is sure it never happened at all. He reminds himself that he’s doing this for his studio and nothing more— he tells himself that gold is worthless. 

“Come on,” he says, turning on legs that feel like pogo sticks. “The bus leaves soon and I don’t want to miss it.”

Pete takes a moment to follow but eventually takes the lead once more, pulling Patrick along with a soft frown on his face, blinking rapidly. Is he trying to feel the gold Patrick had named? Or is he simply confused at the words Patrick had said? 

“Why don’t you drive?” He asks as the bus stop comes into view. Patrick shrugs, biting down on the declaration that the information is none of Pete’s business.

“Convenience, I guess,” he says, frowning slightly. “Everything I need is pretty much in walking distance and the bus systems are good. I had a car but I never liked driving so it only made sense to sell it to pay for—” He cuts off, shaking his head as the words tumble loose without permission. Flowers and dark clothes and small spots of ground— dug into the shape of a lopsided rectangle— dance around his thoughts with the searing heat they always bring. 

His grip on Pete’s hand tightens— unintentionally, unreasonably— and he focuses on anything but his own thoughts. The sun’s nearly set, now, and it spills a fan of yellow light onto the patches of sidewalk before them. He lingers in the bright shade, a few feet away from the bus stop, and imagines the sun can undo the tangle of pain in his chest.

Pete doesn’t seem to notice his odd behavior and Patrick glances up to see him frowning thoughtfully at the bus stop. It’s not the nicest one in the city, he knows, dirty and shrouded in the darkness of the taller buildings, but he’s waited here enough time to know that it’s safe. Pete, however, turns Patrick towards him with a hand on his cheek and a worried tone in his voice.

“Be safe, okay?”

Patrick could laugh but he’s sure it’ll come out sounding all wrong; he could joke but Pete doesn’t seem to be in the mood for it.

“I always am,” he says, leaning into Pete’s touch. It should be the end of the conversation— another empty promise, another meaningless oath— but the anxious colors in Pete’s eyes only grow. He licks his lips and watches Patrick carefully, eyes searching his face for something Patrick can’t give. He leans towards him, closer than before, and Patrick’s heart skips. What if Pete has another trick up his sleeve? What if he has one more scheme to fulfill? 

As Pete leans down, his thumb brushing gentle lines across Patrick’s cheek, Patrick panics and wonders if Pete means to kiss him.

Panic is never good in a situation as delicate as this but Patrick gives into it anyway, pulling back with a shaky laugh. “I’ll be fine, alright? I can… I can see you tomorrow? Let you know I’m fine?” 

The words hang in their air, connected by a dainty sigh. They almost feel fragile, as if one wrong move will break them completely.

“I’d like that,” Pete says, smiling as he lets his hand fall from Patrick’s cheek. There’s nothing precious about his words, nothing threatening to shatter even as he whispers them. 

This time, when Pete leans down, Patrick doesn’t move away. He’s frozen and burning and terrified and his eyes go wide even as Pete closes his own.

Pete’s lips, warm and smooth and featherlight, brush against Patrick’s cheek, the exact same spot where his thumb had been. Patrick can still feel his smile and shudders when it twists into something more across his skin. The smile— smirk, grin— is the first thing Patrick sees when Pete pulls away. He does his best to return the look, an enthusiastic smile stretching his lips across his face.

“See you tomorrow,” he says. 

Pete nods. “Tomorrow.”

The smile doesn’t leave his face and the smug light in his eyes only burns brighter with each second. Something about the expression seems off and Patrick feels sick at the thought.

It’s not until he’s on the bus, looking out to wave at Pete, that he realizes Pete’s smile wasn’t part of the game. 

He wasn’t smiling like he’s playing a part; he’s smiling like he’s already won.

And that smile follows Patrick home, a pocket hurricane turning his mind and thoughts inside out. 

It’s a smile that follows him even into his dreams.

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In classic hum-my-name fic fashion, Patrick runs away from his problems. And the author is only a little bit sorry
> 
> (she's not sorry at all)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have realized that I have done the Patrick running off trope too many times. Unfortunately, that does not seem to be enough to stop me. I thoroughly apologize. I swear.
> 
> Haha, anyway, thank you so much to everyone who commented last chapter! I'm truly astounded by the amount of support this fic is getting-- considering the fact that it was never meant to be written at all! Honestly! I have a whole document of what fics I want to write and this one was nowhere on there-- it was a spur of the moment "I want to write something new now" and nothing else was appealing. 
> 
> Also~ Shameless promo for my other fic! If you're enjoying this, I have another ongoing piece called "Trickster's Wave" which is a fic based on Patrick's solo thing "Truant Wave." And, hey, you know what, it's really different so you might like it even if you hate this one. Haha, either way, go give it a chance!
> 
> Finally, please, continue to comment and let me know what you think! Your thoughts mean the world :)

Pretending he doesn’t hate his mother’s phone calls is one of Patrick’s least favorite activities. If there’s one thing Patrick’s mother is an expert on, it’s finding the absolute worst times to call— followed up by her skills on finding the absolute worst topics to call about.

“I just don’t understand why I have to find out about your relationships through online trends,” she says, interrupting Patrick’s previous grousing about the subject. “I’m your  _ mother _ . If anything, I should know about this first!”

“Mom,” Patrick says, wincing at how whiny he sounds. “You know I’d love to talk to you but now’s not really a good time and—”

“And why is that?” She asks, interrupting once again. Patrick collapses into the swivel chair in the studio office and sighs. 

“You know what? Nevermind.” Better to leave the subject untouched than invite whatever would follow once his mother finds out he’s not alone in the studio.

More specifically, once she finds out Pete’s here with him.

He’d shown up near the end of the workday as Patrick double-checked a band’s booking time for tomorrow. The sight of Pete in his studio unnerved Patrick— more so because he hadn’t given any warning before simply arriving— but he came bearing Chinese takeout and Patrick was willing to forgive his existence long enough to accept the offering.

“This is the second time you’ve arrived out of nowhere,” Patrick had told him while setting up a makeshift eating space in the front lobby, “and both times as if I should have been expecting it.”

Pete had eased these suspicions with an easy smile. “Don’t you expect to see your boyfriend whenever you can? Or, I suppose, don’t you  _ enjoy  _ the surprise of seeing me?”

Patrick didn’t get out more than a tight-lipped smile before he was saved by the sound of his office phone ringing. He’d raced to the back without a word only to find he’d jumped from one mess to the other. After his mother finished scolding him for staying in the studio so long and thus neglecting his cell phone, she’d moved on to worse topics.

Topics like Pete.

“I’m just saying,” she continues, unaware of Patrick’s forming headache and willingness to ignore her voice, “I deserve to be part of my son’s life.”

It takes all Patrick’s willpower not to hang up and join Pete in the lobby. As awful as Pete is, at least his presence promises food. Food that, Patrick thinks with a disappointed frown, is probably going cold. 

“You weren’t saying that when I came to work with dad a few years ago,” he says instead, rather spitefully. His mother sighs, the sound mere static on the phone— or perhaps it’s an effect of her trying so hard to sound genuine

“Honey,” his mother drawls, causing Patrick’s teeth to clench together with a click. “You know I never meant to make you feel—”

“You didn’t make me feel anything,” Patrick says, covering emotion with gruffness. “Are we done talking yet?”

Silence fills the line once more. A few moments pass and then they’re back at the start.

“I just wish I knew why you didn’t tell me,” his mother says as if repeating it will make Patrick any more willing to answer. “Do you know what it’s like to… to find out these things from online trends and newspapers? It’s humiliating and it’s… It’s worrying.”

Patrick, severely exhausted with the topic by now, sighs. “Worrying?”

“Yes.” His mother speaks as if she believes every word she says on a spiritual level. “You used to tell me everything and now you’re keeping it from me that you’re dating one of the nation’s best-known businessmen? I just… It’s not like you, is all. I’d expect a text, at least.” She pauses, breathing heavy, and then begins again. “He’s not isolating you, is he? Telling you not to talk to me or… or your friends? He treats you well, right?”

It’s high school all over again— overprotection and assumption— but the questions feel different somehow. Perhaps it’s the fact that the relationship is fake or the distance between him and his mother but something in his veins stirs at the words, his eyebrows furrowing together as he considers an answer.

“Yeah, I mean, I… I guess he’s good. He’s charming and all and… I don’t know. We haven’t fought or anything and there’s no way he could, like, take advantage of me. And I don’t think he would, either. He’s a good guy.” Patrick runs a hand through his hair, strands sticking out from beneath his cap in all unkempt directions. He doesn’t disbelieve what he’s saying— from what he’s seen, Pete may be the biggest asshole Patrick’s met but that doesn’t make him immoral— but something about saying so out loud has him sweating and bouncing his leg nervously. It’s better than telling his mother the truth, he supposes— it’d be too embarrassing and, besides, she would never understand. “I don’t know what else you want me to say.”

“Oh.” His mother somehow manages to sound shocked and Patrick wonders how exactly she pictures him— if she knows he’s a grown man capable of taking care of himself. “So he’s not rushing you into anything? I know you’ve always let your partners lead and you know how that worries me, Patrick.”

“Okay, first, that’s not true,” Patrick sputters, face growing red. “You haven't seen me since I quit, like, college so don't pretend to know my dating life. And, second, Pete’s not, like, he’s… We’re not rushing, at all. We haven’t even kissed yet, for god’s sake.”

He’d expect his mother, of all people, to accept this answer as good news; instead, her disbelief only grows.

“Really? That’s… Wow.” She takes a few more seconds before speaking again and Patrick can vividly imagine how she’d be blinking in surprise right about now. “But don’t you want to kiss your boyfriend? You know, if he’s as good as you say. You’re all publically official and all, I… I’d thought you’d be moving a bit quicker.”

“Oh, come on. First, you worry he’s a bad influence and next you’re practically saying we should be on the way to marriage,” Patrick complains, leaning back in his chair. In the lobby, there’s a sound and Patrick glares at the open office door. It’d be suspicious to close it at this point and it’s not as if the hallway allows a clear view inside. Still, he wishes he had shut it even a bit. “What, exactly, do you expect from this relationship?”

“It’s not that I expect anything,” his mother says, sounding scolded and scolding all at once. “I merely find it strange.”

“Strange.” Patrick huffs out a bitter laugh. That’s one way to define it. “Look, I’m sure it’ll come up but, really, it’s not like I need to kiss Pete.”

“But do you want to?”

The question takes him back and his spine straightens, hoping he'd heard wrong. “What?”

“You said you don’t  _ need  _ to kiss him but not that you didn’t want to,” his mother explains. “And word choice is very important in these things, dear.”

“I’m a songwriter, mom, I write everything but actual words.” He only hesitates because there’s no proper answer, that’s all— no reason to say yes or no. And he does want to say no— or so he reminds himself when the word takes a while to form. “No. Not yet. I don’t know. Can we move on?”

“Hmph,” his mother huffs, emphasizing the fact that such dramatics is a trait Patrick received from her. “Well, what do you suggest we talk about?”

_ I would suggest you never call. Like. Ever _ .

Patrick just barely refrains from speaking his mind, turning back towards his desk and powering on his computer.

“Well, if we have to talk, I was wondering if you could help me piece together some stuff about dad,” he says, holding the phone between his ear and shoulder as he uses both hands to search through his personal music files. “Because, like, I’ve found some of the songs he’d been writing but just can’t figure out where they came from. Some of them weren’t recorded but, like, they had sheet music and lyrics and stuff that I can work with. So, basically, I was able to put together a few demos of them and was wondering, if I played a few, do you think you could tell me what they’re about? Or, at least, when he wrote them? I just… I’d just like to know. It'd make me feel... closer to him, I guess.”

He expects the silence before he hears it, the sudden quiet following his mother’s sharp intake of breath. He bites back cruel and careless words, phrases that would tear both himself and his mother to shreds in a handful of syllables. 

Soon enough, she concedes— exactly as Patrick had expected her to.

“Sure,” she says but her tone is clipped. “But just one.”

Patrick hadn’t expected her to sound quite so cold but he takes what he can get, choosing one of the more recent songs from the file and biting his lip. 

“Okay, yeah. Um, okay.” He hesitates, hand shaking as he hovers the mouse over the play button. “It’s, um, it’s a really rough demo and I tried to make it all sound cohesive but, like, I didn’t do more than guitar and drums and stuff and I tried singing it the way the sheet music was but—”

“Patrick,” his mother says, tired. “Just play it.”

Patrick swallows, staring at the screen until his eyes feel painfully dry. “Yeah, okay.”

And he plays the song.

It begins with an acoustic guitar strumming out a few simple chords, dark and slow until drums come in with a more complex beat— picking it up from something soft into a more heart-racing melody. Patrick’s vocals join in for the first verse, accompanied by an electric guitar. The lyrics don’t strive far from the given tune and he mumbles a few of the phrases— unsure of his father’s handwriting and choked by emotion— but, overall, it’s a decent song. Nothing radio worthy or popular but it does strike something in Patrick’s chest when he hears himself belt his father’s chorus—  _ “I’m on my way home…” _

It’s halfway through the song when his mother finally makes a noise, a strangled sound interrupting the instruments as they cut down to only acoustic guitar. Patrick-- on the track-- sings some of the prettier lyrics his father had written.

_ “I can see the horizon and the sunrise in her eyes; If I can catch a ride I might make it home tonight…” _

Instruments come back in, quicker and more daring than before. 

This, too, his mother interrupts.

“I really don’t know how I’m expected to know a thing about this,” she snaps, encouraging Patrick to pause the song in shock. “Have you asked your stepmother?”

They’re callous words, thoughtlessly tossed through the phone as if they won’t hit Patrick as badly as if she were here.

“This was before he met Kristi,” he responds, his voice nearly a growl as his grip on the phone tightens. 

“Well, no matter.” His mother’s distant once again, waving off Patrick’s statements like he’s a child— like he’s disillusioned and silly for thinking she’d care. “How am I supposed to know about his songs? I was never involved in such nonsense, you know that. You shouldn’t expect me to remember a thing about it after all these years.”

“Just like I shouldn’t have expected to see you at th- When I needed you?” He still can’t say the words, can’t even think them, but his mother gets the idea easily enough.

“Now that’s not fair.” Her voice is cutting, knives across guitar strings and vocal chords as Patrick gapes at nothing, glad she stayed in her comfortable apartment across the country so she can’t see how she’s affecting him now. “Your father and I had been divorced for years by then and I had no obligation to go.”

“You should have had an obligation because of me!” Patrick cries out, jumping to his feet though there’s nothing tangible to fight. “I can forgive the years of cold shoulder, okay? I can understand your outrage at me choosing a side or whatever the hell you thought it was when I moved out here-- but I can’t comprehend how a mother lets her son grieve alone!”

“You aren’t alone,” she says back, as equally impassioned. “I’m talking to you now, aren’t I? I called and messaged and did everything I could to restore contact. How is that not enough?”

Patrick laughs, hating how watery it sounds already. “You’re only here now because you see an opening. Maybe it’s guilt or regret but it sure as fuck isn’t genuine. You weren’t here before and that gives you no right to try to be here now.”

His mother sighs and, somehow, that’s worse than any sort of verbal response. Reduced to a child, the way she always makes him feel, yelling and screaming at someone who doesn’t have the patience to pretend to care.

“I needed you,” he continues, cutting off her exasperated snapping of his name. “No, stop, I… I needed my mom and you weren’t here. I don’t care how you felt about dad or his family or… or whatever bullshit caused you two to break up. What I care about is the fact that you couldn’t turn away from your stupid ego long enough to come see me when I needed you most.”

“That may be so.” Cool. Callous. Carefully restraining the anger beneath. “But I did give you the option to come to me and I told you my home is always open for you. You keep pretending I’m the bad guy in all of this but that’s simply not true. Ever since it happened, I’ve been telling you to just sell the stupid studio and move here but you’re too much of a stubborn child to let go of—”

“Because it’s dad’s studio and it’s the only thing of his I have left!” Patrick screams, loud enough his throat burns. “Everyone wants to take it from me. Everyone wants to pretend that it’s not important. Everyone wants to watch me sign it over to some bullshit company and walk away like moving on is as easy as that. But it’s not easy and it’s not going to happen. This is dad’s studio— this is _ my  _ studio and no one, not even you, will take that away from me!”

His throat throbs from the other words he wishes to say and all the sobs he’s had to bite back. He screams when he throws the phone, barely hearing his mother’s voice trying to rationalize as it collides with the wall, a self-destructive part of his mind hoping it leaves a dent. He can’t see, though, through the tears clouding his eyes with a piercing heat. Everything slips into despair and he’s left shaking, trembling, begging for the world to end because he shouldn’t be standing in this office alone.

And then something shifts behind him. Something moves, gasps, clears its throat.

Something causes Patrick to turn— red-faced, teary-eyed, appearing every bit the mess he is— and his breaths cut his lungs when he sees that that something is Pete.

For a moment, no one moves. For a moment, Patrick can pretend he’s not as exposed as feels he is, pretend that he knows how to make this into the proper move for their game. Twist it into a manipulation, shape it into something less dramatic.

For a moment, Patrick can pretend he isn’t weak.

But a moment passes too quickly, something Patrick knows all too well. It’s nothing in the scheme of a day, of a month, of a life. It’s nothing, at all.

He shoves past Pete without a word, telling himself he’s going for a walk to clear his mind. He’ll plan out what to say, what to do, and figure out how to fix this mess with his mom, his studio, his faked relationship. 

Outside greets him with crisp air and bustling crowds, just in time for him to get lost in the waves of people just leaving work. It’s too easy to become one of the faces, to keep his head down and hands in his pockets, to walk without ever wishing to stop.

He does stop, though, when he turns back to see the lights above his dad’s studio lit up, calling musicians to come play a few songs— to try their luck with their talents. He stops when the wind blows cold and he wishes he had brought a jacket, wishes he had someone to remind him to do so. 

He stops when the sky is dark and the sound of the street is overpowered by the sound of his own heart beating traitorously in his chest— as if it has any right to sound so proud.

He stops, unable to move but for the gasping motions of his chest, the broken and stuttered trembling of his lips, the shutting of his eyes and the shedding of tears.

Alone amongst the crowds of those running home to their families, he stops.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

He doesn’t know when Pete finds him, doesn’t know if the sky is blue or grey or dark with night. He doesn’t know  _ how  _ Pete finds him— seated on a bench, drained and empty and hiding in his own hands. All he knows is that, one moment, he’s alone with his thoughts and, the next, there’s the bitter comfort of someone seated next to him. Too close to be a stranger; too far to be a friend.

They both keep the silence intact, tired as it is; Patrick’s eyes slip in exhaustion, in emotion, in emptiness. Pete’s presence presses against him, though, like a cloak on a summer’s day and, minutes or hours or days later, Patrick speaks.

“Just go,” he says, still bent forward and staring at his own shadow painting the sidewalk. “I can’t deal with this right now.”

Pete doesn’t respond, doesn’t move, and Patrick never really expected him to. The air falls still once more, broken only by Patrick’s embarrassing sniffles and tremoring breaths. He shuts his eyes and pretends he’s alone, that Pete’s not here, that he’s not losing their game— not because he’s fallen in love with Pete, no, but because there’s no way to make Pete fall in love with him. Not after this; not during this.

When Pete speaks, though, his voice is casual— the same voice he'd use for discussing the weather or asking about the day. Nothing in his tone gives away his thoughts and, as infuriating as it is, Patrick’s grateful.

“Was it you?” Pete asks, calling Patrick’s eyes towards him. “Singing in that track? I had heard music so that’s why I was there— not to eavesdrop, I try not to do that. But… I had to come see who was singing.”

“I’m not a singer,” Patrick says, voice raw as he turns away. “I was just… That was… It- I- I was fucking around, that’s all. It wasn’t anything worth talking about.”

“Oh, really?” Pete laughs and the sound has Patrick straightening up, turning to him with narrowed eyes. “Well, if that was you fucking around then I’d love to see what you could do once you put your mind to it.”

There’s nothing in Pete’s voice or face that describes his statement as a joke or tease and, though his throat aches and his cheeks are smudged with tears, Patrick can’t help but laugh, too. Warmth plants itself in his lungs like a seed, small but hopeful that it will grow with time. It’s strange and he doesn’t quite trust it but he needs it and, for now, that’s all that matters.

“You know, my dad was always the musician,” Patrick says, wiping dried tear tracks from his cheeks as he stares somewhere over Pete’s shoulder. He shouldn’t be saying this, knows that Pete can’t truly care, but the words slip from his tongue before he has a chance to taste them, filling the air with their shattering and shimmering sounds. “He was always… Always working on lyrics and song ideas, writing down that kind of stuff on whatever was nearby. We had so many post-it notes just stuck all over the damn place because he’d write something and forget where he left it. I still… I still find some of them, sometimes. And… I don’t know. I don’t know why it bothers me but…”

Every word has a weight in it, pressing first into Patrick’s lips and then into the space between him and Pete. He trails off, letting his sentences linger as if they’ll disappear given enough time. His throat suddenly hurts again and he swallows around the knot forming there, face going red from how easily his eyes have gone damp once more.

It’s not fair.

None of this is fair.

Pete frowns back but it’s not at him, not really. It’s softer than it’s been before,something like genuine sympathy in his eyes when he closes the gap between them, moving closer so that they’re pressed thigh-to-thigh and side-to-side. Patrick tries to scoff and move away but, somehow, he only presses closer to Pete.

It’s not fair, he thinks, but it is nice.

“I understand, you know,” Pete says, quoting one of those sayings Patrick’s hated ever since his father… “So, like, if you ever wanna talk about it, you can tell me.”

It’s too easy to lean into Pete when he places a cautious arm across Patrick’s shoulders, hovering above him for just a moment before settling across the slumped shapes. Patrick hates Pete for pretending to know how he feels. He hates him for putting him in this situation— because how can he forget that the man comforting him now is the same one threatening to take everything away? He hates Pete and he hates his words, his touch, his voice, his comfort, his—

Well. 

Most of all, Patrick hates himself for giving in. For wanting to believe it. For pretending any of it is real.

He wonders what his father would say if he saw him now, betting his own heart in the name of keeping something as simple as a studio safe. 

He wonders if his father can see him now, at all, and he wonders if he wants his father to see him or not. This surely isn’t one of his better moments— though Patrick’s sure he looked far worse the last time his father saw him, collapsed on the sidewalk with a suddenly stopping heart.

If Patrick’s a wreck now, he can only imagine the explosion he was then.

Patrick shakes his head as if such a simple action could ever dislodge months of pain and loss. He looks to Pete, intent on pulling back or voicing some of his frustration.

All harmful words, though, die the moment he sees the way Pete’s looking down at him. Raw and almost horrified, stripped back so Patrick can, at last, see something more than an act. Something more than a game. 

Something absolutely terrifying.

When Pete lifts a hand to wipe some of the stray tears from Patrick’s cheek, Patrick still doesn’t think to move. Pete’s thumb presses into his skin with a rough kind of affection, fleeting and lingering all at once, and Patrick holds his breath even when Pete’s pulled away— even when Pete’s smiling softly.

Patrick knows he’s a fool and he hates everything about this moment. He hates the way his heart pounds in response to Pete’s touch and he hates how Pete can so easily cover his own reactions back up. Patrick feels like a pawn in a game, a piece of entertainment to Pete, and he wishes he could do anything to change the fact.

Instead, he gives into the gentleness surrounding him, allowing the night to cool his burning heart.

“My mom found out that we’re, well, dating or whatever they’re saying,” he says. Anything to draw this moment out; anything to keep the next round of this challenge from starting.

“Oh?” Pete asks, his smile half-formed. “Does she approve?”

“I think so,” Patrick says. His voice still wavers but it’s better now, a simple wave rather than a tumultuous storm. “She asked why we haven’t kissed yet.”

Pete doesn’t react the way Patrick might have expected if he had told himself to expect anything. He straightens and widens his eyes in shock, smile dropping quicker than Patrick’s heart. “Do you want to kiss me?”

“No, of course not, I’m not stupid,” Patrick says, meaning every word regardless of the game or bet. He turns his head with a wrinkled nose and stares instead at the darkened sky above them, a never-ending void promising that at least one thing in the universe feels emptier than Patrick does.

Perhaps it’s this dismal thought that has him continuing; maybe it’s the silence broken only by his own heartbeat. 

“I don’t want to kiss you,” Patrick says. He speaks slower this time, choosing his words rather than letting them take control on their own. It’s part of the game, he tells himself; this is just part of his bet. Still, his voice is nothing but a whisper when he faces Pete once more. “But I don’t think I would move away if you were the one who started it.”

They aren’t words Patrick’s ever said before, a form of exposure he’s never been comfortable letting himself feel. 

Part of the game.

Part of the bet.

Part of anything and everything Patrick’s willing to do to keep his studio safe.

Right?

Pete smiles and it’s different from every smile before, barely existent but still radiating with a light Patrick can’t look away from. It’s brilliant and it’s warm and it’s so close— too close.

Pete doesn’t speak as he moves closer, dipping his head down just barely, but Patrick can still hear every thought that must be thrumming through his mind— every strategy and tactic, each move on the game of chess they’ve set out before them. The  _ thumpthumpthump  _ of pieces shifting around the board matches the beating of Patrick’s heart far too well.

He can’t move back as Pete grows closer and he can’t tell if he wants to move at all. He didn’t expect a kiss— except, yes, maybe he did, but not like this. Not right now. Not after Patrick’s been crying and spouting useless words and none of this matters anyway because Pete’s right here and Patrick can feel his breath on his lips and—

Patrick shuts his eyes.

A phone begins to ring. 

Pete pulls away so suddenly that Patrick feels nothing but cold. 

“I’m sorry,” he breathes and Patrick wishes he would mean it for more than just the phone call— a call Pete answers without hesitation.

“Hello? This is Wentz.” Unaffected. Unemotional. Unintimidated.

Everything Patrick isn’t. 

Patrick slumps forward again, staring wide-eyed and red-faced at the street as an old familiar hollowness settles into his gut— a feeling he can’t ever seem to escape, no matter how heavily he tries to breathe it all out.

He’s losing.

He bites his tongue and folds his hands into fists, nails digging into his palm until the sting drags him kicking and screaming back to reality.

This isn’t a fairy tale and Pete isn’t here to make all his grief better; he can’t fix Patrick’s emotions and he wouldn’t want to if he could. He’s nothing but a nuisance, a threat, an idiot here to steal the last important thing in Patrick’s life.

It’s time for Patrick to remember that. No matter how much it aches to give up such warm comfort.

“You good to go?” Pete asks, lifting the phone from his ear long enough to toss a worried— fake, fake,  _ fake _ — look Patrick’s way. “I can walk you back if you need.”

Patrick smiles and he knows it looks more spiteful than he means it to. He runs a thumb over his bottom lip, pretending to consider but hoping he’ll catch Pete’s eyes following the action. The night, though, hides any flash of gold towards his temptations and he wonders how deeply he'll have to dig in order to claim the treasure as his own.

"I'd love that," he says, grabbing Pete's hand and pulling them to their feet. "Thanks."

When Pete smiles, it's fake.

When he holds Patrick's hand, it's fake.

When he bumps shoulders and makes jokes and tries to make him feel better, it's all fake.

When his eyes flash beneath the studio lights as he presses his lips gently against Patrick's cheek, Patrick realizes the gold has been pyrite all along.

And he refuses to be its fool. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know a thing about rocks and minerals and gold and stuff, I just wanted to use the metaphor and wordplay.
> 
> Anyway, please leave a comment on what you thought! Each one brings so much more joy than you could ever know and, trust me, I cherish every word :) 
> 
> As always, feel free to come talk on tumblr! User is hum-my-name
> 
> Thank you for reading! I love you all!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last of the Real Ones is about when you're texting someone and all you see are those three dots and you're like JUST FUCKING SAY SOMETHING
> 
>  
> 
> or something like that

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Okay. So. Yes, I have other stuff to be posting (like halloween Peterick stuff you should check out) and Trickster's Wave and the other fake-dating fic but I can't control when a chapter's finished, guys. If I could we'd all be happier.
> 
> Anyway, it's been a while so here's an update for this one! I really am so happy that people seem to be enjoying it so keep sharing your thoughts! It means the absolute world, you have no idea :)
> 
> Now onto these losers!
> 
>  
> 
> (has anyone figured out why there aren't chapter titles yet?)

Unclear shadows spread across the walls of Patrick’s bedroom that night, grim as the melodies still floating in and out of his ears. Perhaps it’s the dark leaking in through the shuttered windows beside his bed or maybe it’s the familiar drum of a light rain against the walls but it feels far too late— in terms of hours and decisions— to fall asleep.

Another track ends on a jarring note, an acoustic demo his dad kept around but never finished. Patrick’s ears click with the sudden silence, sensitive to the static hum of his laptop, and he replays the song. Gentle, soothing, instrumental— it’s the latter that tugs at his heart the most; there’s no voice found within one of the few things his father left behind.

Still, the chords are comforting and Patrick’s fingers curve with the desire to bend around the neck of a guitar, to play along and hum lyrics his dad never thought to write. He imagines the press of the strings, the biting chill of metal before they warm and slide beneath his touch with ease. He thinks of the percussion he’d like to add, strings to accompany the solemn tune, voice and bass and more.

Somehow, as he thinks of words to fit this song, he ends up thinking of Pete and all the pretty things he’d had to say tonight.

Pete, who’d witnessed one of Patrick’s more painful breakdowns— painful, true, but far from the worst— and walked him home anyway. Who’d collected his phone from the studio floor, pieced it back together and smiled when it still worked. He hadn’t forced Patrick to speak as they returned back to Patrick’s house, taking it upon himself to paint the night with soft words and grand illusions. Patrick hadn’t paid much attention but, when he did, it was nearly poetic.

“It’s just one of those questions you end up asking yourself late at night,” Pete had said, lost in ponderings Patrick wasn’t sure he was meant to understand. “What good comes of being seen as something when I know I’m just… I feel more like a ghost but not even that. A ghost of nothing is what I call it. I don’t know. It doesn’t make any sense.”

Patrick had shrugged.

“I think it does,” he’d said. “Especially when… After something really bad happens, it’s easy to feel like you’re not existing in the same world as everyone else and, like, when it was something really bad… You start to wonder if you ever existed in their world, at all. Ghost of nothing. I get it.”

Pete had lit up at Patrick’s attempt at translation but it was a dimmer light in his eyes, a smile that didn’t quite reach the same brightness it typically did. Patrick wanted to call it faking but, now, looking back at it, there seemed to be something more. He wonders if he can call it an understanding; he wonders if he can call it real.

Just as easily, he brushes this aside. It’d be better to call it nothing, at all.

Patrick shakes his head, guilt coiling in his gut with a heavy heat as he realizes he’d spent the better part of his dad’s song thinking of Pete. Not scheming or planning just… thinking.

He’s not falling for Pete, he knows this. He’s not losing and he’s not giving in. He doesn’t know how he feels, exactly, but he knows he doesn’t like Pete.

But he also knows he doesn’t hate him. Not the way he did before. Not with that fiery passion prepared to destroy everything Pete stands for, that burning desire to watch him fail.

The song— not quite a song, really, more of a nearly constructed melody— comes to another stop. Patrick’s finger hovers over the option to replay, as if this is the time the sound will finally lull him into a sense of peace. He waits six for heartbeats, admits such blind peace is a fantasy and closes the laptop with the gentleness of wishing someone— a loved one, a dad— goodnight.

And that’s another thing. Patrick’s been thinking about his dad far more than he’s done in the past few months. At first, it was another way to stoke the fire— the motivation behind it all— and, he’ll confess, it still is. Everything Patrick’s done since his dad left— left, disappeared, anything but the actual word— has been what he knows his dad would want. Keeping the studio open, fighting for its protection, writing songs and fake-dating Pete and…

And Patrick wonders if he was thinking of those motivations at all when he asked, in not so many words, for Pete to kiss him. It didn’t feel like something strategic, barely felt like more than a cry for comfort. Patrick would be embarrassed— more so than he already is— if Pete hadn’t seemed so willing to lean in.

Is that a sign Pete’s losing? Or, like the thudding of his heart when he thinks back to that moment, is it proof of Patrick’s own failure?

Someone made a slip tonight and Patrick doesn’t know who. He wonders what would have happened if that call had never interrupted, if Pete had closed the distance with the tenderness his eyes— lying, scheming, fool’s gold and just that— had promised.

But fool or not, the simmering tension between them had been peaceful— Patrick can’t try to deny that. Silent, dark hair splayed across his forehead, Pete had leaned in.

Pete had leaned in first. He’d seemed calmer, kinder, more genuine than Patrick had ever seen him before. In the dimness of night— and that’s all it was, wasn’t it? A trick of the night?— he reminded Patrick of every dream he’d had, the silly ones with white knights and reassuring smiles.

Pete isn’t quite a white knight— more of the Disney villain, the dragon descending upon a village with fire in his handsome eyes— but he plays the part well when he wishes. When Patrick wishes.

In those dreams, daydreams like this, Patrick always feels like the fool and isn’t that fitting? But he can see it so clearly, the way Pete would brush Patrick’s hair from his face and cup his cheek— and Patrick’s face warms from the thought alone.  

He shuts his eyes and he can see the way Pete would have— could have, _should_ have— lowered his lips to his. Patrick’s hasn’t kissed anyone so tenderly— hasn’t kissed anyone in a long time— but he can see this one so clearly. It feels right, like that’s how the scene should have gone, even though they’re not dating, not really.

It’s not that Patrick wants to kiss Pete; he just…

He can see it. That’s all.

As if sensing his doubts, Patrick’s phone buzzes from the bedside, pulling him from his thoughts with all the shock of a ringtone interrupting a kiss.

A myriad of emotions swirl hot and heavy in Patrick’s blood when he sees it’s Pete texting; surprise is not one of them.

FROM PETE: _u ok?_

Short, sweet, to the point— Patrick has no idea how to respond.

TO PETE: _don’t really wanna talk about it_

His thumbs seem to move on their own accord, typing out the same sentence he’s sent a thousand times to dozens of people by now, each one with better intentions than the man he’s currently texting. The thought leaves a bitter— sharp, relentless— taste in his mouth.

He knows by now that no one ever leaves it at that, never lets him rest from whatever breakdown they’d witnessed that day. He also knows enough about Pete to know he’s either too dense or cruel to let this go. Sure enough, another message lights up the screen and Patrick projects some of his own edginess into the tone, bristling at the thought of Pete messing with him.

FROM PETE: _nt an answer_

If Pete cared, the way Patrick won’t admit he imagines Pete could, he’d be sending a few more vowels. If Pete cared, he’d know enough to pick up the damn phone and call because no one can properly spell when their hands are shaking so badly.

TO PETE: _Also not any of your business_

This, at least, shuts Pete up long enough for Patrick to drag his knuckles over his eyes in a hasty attempt to pretend there aren’t any tears hiding in them, left over from the mistake of thinking he’s better than he was months ago.

He looks back down after a few moments have passed, suspicious of Pete’s silence but not questioning it. He doesn’t know what he plans to do— to work, to sleep, to pretend he’s well enough to do any— but something on the screen gives him pause.

Dots. A row of dots where Pete’s message should— _will_ — be, bouncing along to taunt him with whatever novel Pete’s typing out for him now. They disappear every now and then, teasing him with every scenario this can lead into. Will Pete ask him about the kiss? Will he call Patrick out for it and say he’s losing? God, no, he can’t think Patrick’s losing because Patrick’s _not_ , okay, it takes more than a nice smile and a walk home to win him over and  _will Pete just say something?_ This is impossible, it's unfair and it's maddening. Patrick doesn't want Pete to respond but anything's better than this torture, this moment of wondering and not knowing and It’s…

Pete’s message pops up, shorter than the epic Patrick had been envisioning but still long enough Patrick’s heart pounds in his chest.

FROM PETE: _Right, okay—_

At this, Patrick stops reading and flips his phone over, staring up at the ceiling with a breath trapped in his lungs. Proper grammar and vowels? The world must be ending. At least the apocalypse will save Patrick from fake-dating Pete, he supposes. Little mercies.

However, when Patrick wastes more than a few minutes staring at his ceiling without it caving in on him, he realizes the end of the world will be even more destructive than that.

The end of the world will come when he finishes Pete’s text and, for his own sanity, Patrick returns to it. If his hands are shaking, it’s exhaustion and nothing more.

FROM PETE: _Right, okay. It’s none of my business but I’m going to give some of my thoughts anyway. I don’t know what happened but I have a good general idea. Losing someone fucking hurts and it feels like no one fucking understands, right? There’s no possible way someone as stupid as me, or anyone else (but probably me), can say the right thing so it’s better to end the conversation before it starts. Don’t ask me how I know. Just trust me when I say I know you shouldn’t be alone._  
FROM PETE: _Let me rephrase that: I don’t WANT you to be alone. Not because I want to comfort you or do some stupid boyfriend shit but because that’s when it hurts the most. When you’re alone. There’s no distraction from your thoughts… Nothing but your thoughts and aren’t they the meanest of all? I’ve seen you hurting but I didn’t know how bad it was until today. You have a lot of pain and that’s only going to get louder when you’re by yourself. You need to talk to somebody. Talk, just... talk.  
_ FROM PETE: _Sry this was long but I’m right._

The messages come through one after another as if Pete had typed it all out ahead of time and pasted it into the message box in the sections that made the most sense, that left the most impact. That…

That left Patrick reeling.

Every sentence stands out in a different way, sounding caring with one word and infuriating the next. Pete’s right— _fuck_ , he’s right, Patrick _knows_ — but Patrick hates that he is. He hates that Pete’s tossed pity so haphazardly his way without permission and then demanded Patrick not ask how or why he came across such answers. He hates that Pete wants to dig his thumbs into Patrick’s wounds, watch him bleed and then frown about how bad the injury looks. _I’ve seen you hurting?_ Then why hasn’t he done a damn thing to stop it?

Suddenly, Patrick’s seeing in shades of red, blazing through him with all the sharp sting of someone who’s cut themselves on the porcelain perfection they thought someone else was, a jagged piece of fault reminding him of every time he’s fallen for one of Pete’s tricks.

Falling for his tricks, yes, but never for Pete himself.

 _Maybe you’re right_ , Patrick types out, swearing when his angered hands stumble across the keys and leave him retyping over and over until he has the message right.

TO PETE: _Maybe you’re right. But I imagine it would just make you happy to hear me say so._ _  
_ TO PETE: _I’ll talk to someone someday. I just don’t think it’ll be you_

He’s not playing the part of the perfect boyfriend but neither is Pete. Someone who cares about Patrick would do more than recite therapy over text; he'd call or visit or give him his damn space. Someone who cares about Patrick would recognize his pain and try to fix it in any way they can.

Someone who cares wouldn’t try to take his studio away.

Pete’s so adamant this isn’t some stupid boyfriend shit and how right he is. They’re still playing their game and no one knows that better than Patrick. He shuts off his phone, thumb running over the cracks in the corners to keep him from tossing it at the wall again.

He should forget this happened and go to bed. He should plan his next move against Pete because this, pretending to understand Patrick’s pain at all, is unforgivable.

But, as Patrick shuts off the lights, he’s reminded of the sorrow he’d seen echoed in Pete’s eyes.

He’s reminded of how convinced he was that it was something more than the trick of some fool’s gold.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Patrick’s hesitant to work the next day but he needs _something_ to take his mind off yesterday’s events and Gerard— a full-time shop owner and part-time local musician— had woken him with a string of texts promising he has something good to bring to the studio today.

Though Patrick hates to admit, it’s the promise of coffee and muffins that has Patrick rushing to meet him there.

“Running late?” Gerard asks the second Patrick appears by the studio, red-faced and huffing from the speed walking he’d had to endure to make it here— vainly— before Gerard. Patrick wants nothing more than to roll his eyes and head back home but the familiar sight of the redhead— dyed but still tamer than it’s been in the past, cut short and neat— reduces the urge into a bitter smile and a smack on the arm.

“You know there’s an actual system for booking studio time, right?” He teases, unlocking the door. His voice is hoarse and sore from yesterday's sob session but he clears his throat, pretending it's a result of the morning. “One that doesn’t involve calling me in on a day off?”

“Come on, you’re Patrick Stumph,” Gerard says, following Patrick inside, emphasizing a breath at the end of _Stumph._ “You don’t take days off. It’s just not in your blood.”

Not a lie but also not something Gerard necessarily needs to point out, considering he says as much each time he visits. Patrick’s learned there’s no response that won’t lead them down some rabbit hole of Patrick’s work habits or— on the odd occasion— a discussion on his love life, or supposed lack thereof. As always, Patrick would like to avoid each, the latter far more than the former.  

“Let’s just get this over with.” He accepts Gerard’s gift of coffee and food with a heavy sigh, already seeing the day stretch before him with endless hours. Hours of music and fun with one of his favorite friends, at least, but endless hours nonetheless.

Gerard, being one of the first to have ever stepped foot in the studio upon its opening years ago, has no problem marching ahead and toward the vocal booths near the back. Patrick hurries to keep up with him, not really hearing whatever Gerard’s talking about now.

“So you remember all those demos you recorded a few years ago? I was thinking about them and how they had this really cool 80s vibe and I think I might want to go for something like that— some sort of decade album,” Gerard explains, gesturing with his hands wildly enough for coffee to spill over the top of the cup he’s holding— not that he takes the time to notice. “But I don’t want you to think I’m copying those ideas so I was hoping it could be more of a collaborative effort? I don’t have it all figured out but that’s what you’re for so once we get to the booth—”

“Gee,” Patrick says, finally finding an appropriate moment to cut him off. “Do you even have lyrics? Music? Any ideas past ‘some sort of decade’?”

The silence that follows— made worse by the soundproofing outer shell of the building— answers his question.

“Well,” Gerard says, digging in his back pocket for what appears to be a reporter’s notebook. “If you really think we should start there…”

“Yes,” Patrick nods, slowly backing away and towards the lounge up front. “Yes, we should start there.”

The lounge isn’t the best spot to get any work done, the big glass doors and windows making the area feel too much like a fishbowl for Patrick to really focus on much other than the way the curious few peer inside. And it barely has any of his tools for brainstorming sessions, the odd notebook placed on the table with little else. Still, he’s been making an effort recently to move his work material to the front, along with other plans to reconstruct the space into a more official workroom.

They pass by the office on the way, Patrick explaining how he expects the brainstorming to go when he realizes Gerard’s paused, watching him with furrowed brows and a hand on the office door.

Patrick hates the chill across his skin. “What are you doing?”

“I’m sorry,” Gerard says, the words quick but still hesitating to come out. “I thought… Usually, we work in…”

Right. Because Gerard was one of the first ones here and he knows the office— spacious with an L-shaped desk, windowless and painted a comforting shade of pale blues— is where Patrick would work on ideas. Because Gerard was around when they were first starting out and he was the one to tell… to tell Patrick’s dad that it made sense to use the office.

Because Patrick’s dad always made the office more comfortable, no matter who was in it or what they were working on. Smiling and making jokes, tapping out a beat against the sturdy wood of his desk.

“Well, let’s see what you got,” he’d say, gesturing for beginner musicians to pull up a chair as Patrick sat beside him, firing up Garageband or any other program his dad didn’t quite understand. “And don’t worry about impressing anyone. We may be in an office but we still want you to feel at home.”

Patrick licks his lips, blinking. The hallway around them suddenly seems so much duller than before, his grip on the coffee tight.

“I’m… I’m trying to keep people out of there,” Patrick says, choosing each word carefully. “I’m hoping people will take me more seriously if I have, like, an official office of my own.”

He forces out a laugh, a horrible sound, and it tears on the edges of Gerard’s pitying smile. As if Gerard understands why Patrick needs people to take him, the son of an unknown but well-loved studio owner, seriously; as if Gerard understands why the office is suddenly Patrick’s own.

“Right,” Gerard says, his voice soft. He could push, the word hiding every condolence everyone’s already said. But he doesn’t and Patrick breathes just a bit more easily when Gerard drops it. “Alright.”

The nice thing about Gerard is that he doesn’t make it as awkward as others oft have a habit of doing. He doesn’t keep a close eye on Patrick, seeking out each crack in his happy facade, but he doesn’t do his best to look away, either. He doesn’t ask questions and he doesn’t offer advice, doesn’t say he’s ‘here to listen’— as if Patrick’s entire family and friend group haven’t already offered their time.

When they get to the lounge, Gerard simply sits, balances his coffee between his knees, and leans forward with a smile.

“So,” he starts with a crooked grin, the past moment nothing but a speck of dust in the steady stream that is Gerard’s view of life, “how do we feel about glam-rock?”

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Patrick’s fond of Gerard and his ability to distract anyone from anything. It’s a more helpful trait than Patrick might have ever considered, a bubbly smile and cute quip enough to empty Patrick’s mind for a few minutes, at least. The problem, however, appears when Gerard ends up distracting himself. It starts innocently enough, Patrick making small talk about Gerard’s other hobbies. The next hour and a half are instantly filled with babbling about comic books and animation, half a stack of staff paper victim to Gerard’s superhero doodles.

“See, isn’t this one cool?” Gerard asks, holding up a new sketch of a young girl with some strange symbols on her forehead. “Wouldn’t you buy that comic?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says with a forced smile. He’s happy, he is, but he’s also so tired; the fact that they’re ignoring music in favor of this doesn’t help. “It’s awesome. And a C chord.”

Gerard nods, impervious to the sarcasm, and goes back to the work with a soft hum— the closest thing to a song they’ve gotten all day.

Patrick’s head falls back against the couch and he stares at the ceiling as if begging for mercy.

Of course, because he’s Patrick and the universe hates him, his mercy comes in the form of a dinging notification on his phone. And only one person ever really texts Patrick’s phone.

_Fuck_

Patrick could ignore it but Gerard could start another rambling conversation if he doesn’t, asking about the whos and the whys and the—

“Oh, is that Pete?”

Patrick chokes on his saliva “ _Who?”_

“Pete.” Gerard says it with a shrug. “Brendon told me about him.”

“…Oh.” Patrick makes a note to kill Brendon. Then he remembers that Pete already exposed their relationship to the world and makes a second note to kill Pete, too. “I, uh, yeah. Yeah, it is.”

He confirms the sender before he’s halfway done reading the text, a few misspelled words sent his way to mention that Pete intends on stopping by. Without permission because _of course._

“That’s cool,” Gerard says and, though his head is ducked and his voice is muffled, he almost sounds like he means it. “I was wondering about him, you know. Didn’t really believe Brendon at first but then I saw the tweets and talked to Mikey… Well. I can’t judge. If he makes you happy then I can’t be upset that you got a boyfriend without telling anyone.”

“Oh, well, uh. Sorry about that,” Patrick says, uncertain if there’s anything else he should say. “It just happened really fast.”

“Which is another weird thing,” Gerard says, finally peering up even as his pen keeps moving. “It was really fast.”

“Um—”

“And you still didn’t say whether he makes you happy or not.” The pen lifts off the page, the tip pointed in Patrick’s direction with some ink still dripping off of it. “He seems like a really shady guy, no offense, and I don’t think you could handle getting hurt right now. Mikey works at his company, you know, so if you need a spy on the inside or something to bribe Wentz with, I’m sure he can find something and—”

“Hey!” Patrick protests, shoving the pen away and ignoring the heat in his cheeks. This all would have been very helpful information way earlier in the game. “I… I _can_ take care of myself, I’m not as fragile as you all make me out to be. And Pete’s fine. Or, well, he’s better than you seem to think. A hell of a lot more understanding than anyone else I’ve spoken to recently.”

“But does he make you happy?”

Patrick’s mouth shuts, face burning. He’s supposed to have an answer for that?

Thankfully, Gerard continues, turning back to his art. “And what does it even mean that he’s understanding? Does he… Is he, like, with your—”

“No. I’d know if he went through the same thing,” Patrick says, eyebrows furrowing. He won’t admit it but Gerard brings up a good point; how did Pete get Patrick’s emotions so dead-on last night? Was it a guess? A game? Was it even him?

All questions for a later time— or, possibly, never— and Patrick merely shakes his head.

“Okay, one last thing,” Gerard asks. His eyes flash up at Patrick. They’re a few shades lighter than Pete’s, their light compressed into a shining shade of amber— and Patrick bites his tongue, hating the comparison.

“What?” He asks, snapping more than he means to. Gerard ignores it.

“Does he have a brother?”

Patrick blinks, trying to reconcile his anger with what he’s hearing.

“Does he… Wait, what?” He asks. “Did you… Did you just ask me if he has a brother?”

“Yes.”

Patrick’s not sure if he’s supposed to laugh or not, Gerard’s face betraying nothing. So Patrick goes to his go-to defense: stammering.

“I… I don’t… It hasn’t… I mean? Maybe he— But, like, does it… would it… would _you_ —?”

“You don’t know if your boyfriend has a brother?” Definitely not joking then. Gerard’s eyebrows lift and Patrick wonders if this is some test sent by God or Satan or Pete.

“I don’t—”

At exactly the right moment, the door slams open and Patrick counts it as the first— and only— time in his entire life that he’s glad to see Pete.

But Pete isn’t alone as he storms— truly storms, thunderous steps and hissing breaths— inside. A pretty redheaded woman follows close behind, cheeks the shade of her hair as she rushes after Pete with a stack of papers nestled under her arm.

“You can’t just run away from this,” she scolds. “It’s all you do. Run, run, run and hope it never catches up with you. Do you really think you’re going to be okay with this in five years from now? Fuck, five _months_ or—”

“I told you I can’t deal with it! Not today,” Pete says, turning to face the woman with a scathing tone of his own. “I’ll be there next week, alright? Christ, is anything good enough for you? Are you ever happy, Ash?”

The argument continues but the name sticks in the air, pressing against Patrick’s skin like a sticker. Ash, Ashlee, the ex-wife. Patrick recognizes the name and face from the variety of tweets he’s been tagged in ever since his relationship was made public. People— most often tabloid assholes— compare him to Ashlee or, worse, ask fans which couple they “ship” more. It’d be entertaining if it wasn’t him, if it wasn’t his life.

“This isn’t about me and you know it,” Ashlee hisses as Pete tries to turn away, hand shooting out to grab his arm and pull him back. The papers she’d been keeping safe fall to the floor in a messy array, out of order and scattered beneath furniture.

She doesn’t seem to care, stepping forward until she and Pete are mere inches apart.

Patrick hates tension and he certainly hates the tense feeling he gets when he watches Pete lean in, too. He knows it’s rude but it’s also his studio; Patrick clears his throat, an eyebrow raised.

“What, exactly, is going on?” He asks, trying to keep his voice even. It’s harder than he’d thought it be, especially when Pete finally looks at him. “Pete? Care to explain?”

“Yeah.” Pete nods but offers no answer when he walks over to Patrick. There’s something different in his eyes, something cruel and real, and he tugs Patrick up by his wrists, tucking him under his arm.

That’s all normal. That’s all okay. What isn’t is the sloppy kiss pressed to Patrick’s cheek, more careless than Patrick ever imagined it would be. He barely has time to consider it before Pete's talking again. “Hey, Ash. This is my boyfriend, Patrick. He runs this studio, you know, so—”

Pete speaks like he can’t wait to get the words out, talking with no explanation other than to let the bustling sounds finally escape.

Ashlee cuts him off with a sympathetic sigh, a slump in her shoulders and resigned tone to match.

“Oh. Is that what this is all about?” She’s still angry, there’s no ignoring that, but something softer lingers in the words— something sad. “Pete, this isn’t running away, it’s… It’s playing pretend and I feel so sorry for anyone who ends up in the aftermath.”

Patrick doesn’t have to look to know that Pete’s eyes are flashing. “Feel sorry for yourself, then, because he’s going to—”

“You’ve been gone for over a week!” Ashlee finally snaps, her voice breaking near the end. “A week, goddamnit! And you want me to pretend it’s for a good reason?”

Pete’s hold on Patrick tightens. “I’m doing my—”

“Don’t you fucking dare finish that sentence,” Ashlee says, eyes narrowed. “Because you _aren’t_ and I don’t care what you think. A son needs his father and… and you’re just awful.”

Patrick’s stomach drops so fast he nearly falls with it, eyes hitting Gerard’s as the air in the room chills. They’re not talking about him— they can’t be talking about him— but Pete’s hold is harsher than it was before, tugging at Patrick like a knot in his gut. Patrick swallows to keep from gagging, to keep from screaming, to keep from asking what Ashlee means when she talks about fathers and sons.

He misses the last of the fight, the bits where Pete tells Ashlee he doesn’t want to see her and the part where Ashlee calls him heartless and leaves, the building seeming to shake from the force of her slamming the door.

But he sees when Pete looks over, leading them back to the couch with an apology to Gerard. He catches the weariness and guilt in his eyes and Patrick hates every second.

Patrick wants to ask, to collect the confession like a curio, but Pete sits beside him with such a heavy sigh that Patrick has no choice but to keep silent.

Pete answers the unspoken question with only four words.

“I have a son.” He pauses— for effect or regret, Patrick can’t tell— and then adds another word, a name. “Liam.”

“Oh,” Patrick says, looking over towards Gerard. Gerard’s expression is as blank as Patrick’s. “How old—”

“He isn't your business,” Pete snaps, hands folding into fists in his lap. When he looks over at Patrick, aiming and hitting his eyes on the first try, his true meaning is clear.

_He isn’t part of the deal_

And that isn’t fair. Wasn’t Patrick’s father brought into this, dragged out of Patrick’s chest and into heartbroken confessions on a bench by the street? Wasn’t Pete trying to get Patrick to _talk just talk_?

Wasn't Pete the one who made the rules, who left out the part about collateral damage?

Patrick wants to ask and push and find his own bloody secret to exploit. But he isn’t like that— he isn’t like Pete— and he holds the impulse down, at least until he can get Gerard to leave.

“Alright, then,” Patrick says, hating the stilted tone of his voice. He shouldn’t be so upset by Pete’s outburst; he’s heard worse from the very same man. “Gerard and I were trying to write music. You can… You can stick around for it if you want.”

Pete blinks, early sunlight pouring in through the wide window behind him.

He doesn’t answer but, as Gerard and Patrick finally get to work, he stays.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Not as long as I might have hoped but what do you think? Things are definitely getting tense and more secrets will be revealed and I'm really excited for all of you to experience the next few dips and twists on this ride.
> 
> Leave a comment or come say hi on tumbr: hum-my-name.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Have a great day/night


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's no clever way to say that Patrick's an idiot but there are a hundred ways to show it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!!!! Look what's back!!!
> 
> Okay, seriously, I am sorry for taking so long with this fic. I know that there are people who might have been wondering where it's gone but rest assured that it's still here. I've been busy with... life and other fics and trying to keep up with all the stupid projects I assign myself, haha. 
> 
> I'm also posting this in the back of a lecture so... that basically describes how my life's been going, haha.
> 
> OH ALSO. I edited the name of Pete's kid from the last chapter. The original plan was to have his son be named something else but I was obviously too tired to notice that I never changed it last time I posted. Sorry.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you still enjoy this and I hope you have the heart to let me know what you think! I'll try to keep a shorter time span between updates if the interest in this fic is still here :) Now onto the chapter at last!

Slipping into the familiar rhythm of music and writing with Gerard would be so much simpler if Pete didn’t insist on hanging around with them, his sour mood tainting what should be a favorite hobby of Patrick’s. Kicking at the floor softly, huffing every other minute, staring out the window as if someone’s making him stay put— Pete’s impossible.

And the most impossible part is that Patrick can’t bring himself to kick him out. He has questions to ask later, answers to find, and it’d be best to search for them as soon as he’s done with Gerard. Pete may be using the studio as an escape or a point to prove but Patrick knows that, if he plays everything right, it can also be a trap. 

Of course, the more naive side of his mind points out that his Pete problem isn’t really a problem at all. The shuffling of his feet is always in time with the claps of Patrick’s hands, marking out a beat for a song. He holds his huffs and sighs in until after Gerard’s finished toying with a lyric. And his eyes aren’t always on the window; sometimes, they’re on Patrick.

Patrick clears his throat after he catches Pete staring again, Pete’s eyes as focused as a snake’s. Gerard doesn’t pay much mind, doodling on the back of a page the way he’s been doing since Patrick started talking about music ideas, and Patrick convinces himself he imagined it.

“Okay, well, I’ve probably still got some keyboards in the back if you wanted to try those,” Patrick says, pausing between every few words to make sure Gerard’s listening. The bobblehead motion of a nod is all he gets but, with Gerard, he’ll happily take it. “I’ve also been curious about synthesizers so maybe…”

Patrick reaches for a blank page of his own, taking one of Gerard’s pencils and ignoring the weak whine of protest he receives in response. He scribbles out his own ideas, listing out instrument names and music styles; he stops when, once again, he feels someone staring at him. With a sigh, he glances up, his heart betraying him with a dizzy little flutter as he looks to Pete.

But, this time, it’s Gerard looking intently at his face.

It takes Patrick just a bit, an interruption in whatever ramble he was prepared to start. Confusion locks on his face as easily as Gerard’s eyes and Patrick lifts his hand in a little wave.

“You following?” He asks. Gerard stares a moment longer and then goes back to his doodles.

“Yeah,” he says, sketching out another line as Patrick blinks and tries to make sense of the past few seconds. “I’m listening.”

“No, he’s not.” Pete’s voice is a contrast to the way he’d been glancing at Patrick every few moments, bitter and accusing. Patrick looks over, eyebrow raised, and pulls back from Pete’s dark pout. It’s a bit terrifying, like a toddler who knows where the knives are if you say no. “He’s  _ drawing  _ you.”

Patrick’s blush curls into his cheeks like a ribbon, warm and slow and cruel. Without really wanting to, he looks over to Gerard’s drawing.

“Oh, come on,” he says, the words sticking in his mouth. “He’s not—”

He is. 

Patrick didn’t notice it the first few times he glanced that way, assuming the profile to be of some new character Gerard’s planning for that comic series he talks so much about. The glasses and hat Gerard’s working on, though, clearly give it away.

“I am,” Gerard says and Patrick finds it awful that he doesn’t sound a bit ashamed to have been caught. Gerard looks up again and Patrick fidgets, Gerard frowning when he does so. “You moved.”

“I… Sorry?” Patrick twitches and nearly looks to Pete for help. But then he remembers that Pete’s the one who pointed this out and, really, when has Pete helped anything?

Pete butts in anyway, leaning forward and looking down at the picture with some sort of scowl. “Do you have to be doing that?”

“What? He’s got a pretty face. I mean, you’ve obviously noticed if you’re dating, right?” Gerard says, filling in one of the frames of Patrick’s glasses in the picture. Patrick stares down at it, his blush warming up as his own face stares back up at him in the form of paper and pencil lead. “His eyes really pop out in all the right ways. And it’s a shame I don’t have any colors because the way the light is running down his hair right now is really gorgeous, don’t you think? Oh, and his lips are basically—”

“Let’s just get back to the music, okay?” Patrick coughs around his words, shifting his gaze to his knees when Gerard pokes the tip of his pencil into the lips he’s sketched out on the page. Pete leans further towards the paper; Patrick doesn’t focus on it. “Okay, so, um. Instruments. Those things. Yeah. Wanna talk about those?”

“What else are we gonna talk about?” Gerard asks, his smile clashing against his deadpan tone. “Your mouth?”

Please, no.

Still, Patrick’s a professional so, Gerard’s scribblings and Pete’s staring aside, music comes before any embarrassment or shame.

The conversation carries on with only the smallest amount of awkwardness, Gerard answering questions and describing his artistic vision between requests for Patrick to stay still or turn a different way. He’s intent on finishing this drawing and Patrick considers it the sacrifice for getting anything done.

If part of that sacrifice includes the weight of Pete’s eyes on him, tracing Gerard’s lines with a gaze that sparks like sulfur, so be it. If he has to ignore the way Pete stares, the way he searches and digs and demands to know Patrick’s thoughts and heart, Patrick will do his best. It’s just a game, a trick, a part of some devious plan. It’s nothing worth falling victim to and…

Okay, honestly? It’s absolutely suffocating.

“Okay, let’s take a quick break,” Patrick says, jumping to his feet and running sweaty palms down his jeans. Gerard glances up, an eyebrow raised as if to remind Patrick that he never takes breaks. More often than not, Patrick has to be torn from his work by hunger or exhaustion or a friend who knows he’s about to faint. Patrick can count on both hands the number of times Gerard’s provided him with a detailed and concerned self-care talk; it’s no use pretending he ever listened.

“Smart idea,” Gerard says slowly, pulling back from his drawing and flicking his eyes from Pete’s glare to Patrick’s nervous inching towards the hall. “You should grab a water. It’s hot in here.”

Is it? Patrick hadn't noticed.

“Sure,” he says. “Be right back.”

And then he’s down the hallway and telling himself to breathe easy. 

It’s not that he cares that Pete was staring at him or that Gerard drew attention to him in such a way. It’s the fact that, well, it was Pete watching him— and the fact that the attention is something Patrick’s supposed to be able to control. 

This game is easier when no one else is involved, when the environment is controlled and everyone else is just a witness. Wildcards have no place in a bet like this and Patrick shakes his head at the notion, stepping into the office to grab a water from the mini fridge kept in the back by the vocal booths. It’s a convenient spot to keep the drinks when singers come in and blow out their voices but, right now, Patrick’s just thankful for the excuse to take his time.

Okay, a plan. Once Gerard leaves—  _ if  _ Gerard leaves and if this isn’t one of those times he insists on staying the night to finish a song— Patrick needs to… What? Corner Pete? Keep him late and begin an interrogation? As he uncaps a water for himself, he eyes one of the vocal booths with a tempted glint in his mind. Maybe he could just lock Pete in there and hope for the best.

Not that he would go through with it. He’s kind enough not to spring unexpected attacks on people.

Pete, however, is not.

“Oh. So you’re hiding back here,” Pete says when Patrick turns around, leaning against a wall and eyeing the area with some sort of disdain. It’s offensive on every level; if he wants the studio so bad, why would he look at it like that? “You know, I always suggest that the studios I own keep the water nearby. It helps keep brainstorm sessions going without cutting it off.”

Patrick bristles, shutting the fridge and placing his and Gerard’s waters on top. If Pete wants one, he can walk to the store and buy it himself. “You plan on owning this studio?”

Pete smiles, sharp in the faded lights back here. “Just a suggestion.”

Patrick hums, picking at his nails and waiting for Pete to move away from where he’s blocking the rest of the hallway. He doesn’t look at Pete, doesn’t move, doesn’t like the fact that he’s been trapped in his own building.

“You gonna—” He’s cut off when Pete steps forward.

“You know, I can see it.” Pete’s voice is a shade softer than before, his eyes more curious and kinder than his smile had been. Patrick looks up, his own eyes narrowed in suspicion as Pete approaches him, but says nothing in return. “The appeal. The looks. The reason Gerard would want to draw you.”

Patrick gnashes his teeth together, turning his head to stare at the floor. The words come out as teasing, as something cruel to prod at his insecurities and easy embarrassment; but the longer they linger, the more real they become. What should be a simple part of their game fills the room with something thick and tense, something that has Patrick pulling his eyes back to Pete.

“We’re gonna be working on things for a while.” His voice isn’t as gruff as he wants it to be; his words aren’t as soft. “You don’t need to stick around.”

In his mind, Patrick panics even as he speaks, even as he gives Pete reason to escape. All thoughts and plans of interrogation and questions slip away, though, when Pete shakes his head with a laugh.

“And leave you with Gerard?” Pete scoffs, close enough now that he can run the back of a finger down Patrick’s cheek. He stops at the edge of his jaw, staring at where he’s touching him. “He likes you, you know. It’s obvious.”

“Yeah?” Patrick’s voice is calm, steady, and it’s his only victory so far. “Is it a problem?”

Pete pauses as if considering his words, trailing his finger lower until catching the collar of Patrick’s shirt.

“Yes,” he says, his voice low as he pulls Patrick forward. “Your bet is with  _ me _ .”

Patrick’s breath stutters in his throat, fluttering like butterflies trying to hide back in his lungs. Pete’s eyes burn and swirl like melted gold and Patrick knows how easy it would be to sink into that heat.

But what does it mean that Pete mentioned the bet? What does it mean that he’s brought that to the game? Does he mean that Patrick’s not serious or that he doesn’t intend to lose? Does he think it’s over or—

Or is this not part of it, at all?

Gerard’s voice calls down from the hall, asking what’s taking so long. Patrick grabs onto Pete’s wrist, intending to pull himself free but only succeeding in pressing against a steady pulse.

For some reason, he doesn’t want to move. 

“Just a second,” he calls out, eyes still stuck on Pete’s like sabotage waiting for the right moment to attack, like a finger poised over the trigger. “We’re—”

He cuts off. He pretends not to see the subtle shape of Pete’s smirk.

“We’re what?” Pete asks, just low enough for Patrick to hear. “Fighting? Talking? Discussing a bet you made in desperation?”

Maybe it’s that woman who ran in here that’s turned Pete cruel; maybe it’s the secret he’s keeping beneath his skin. 

And maybe Patrick’s stupid and blind and helpless but that doesn’t matter because when Pete pulls away, Patrick grows cold.

Sabotage indeed.

“I’ll tell him you got lost.” Pete says it like he’s winning, says it like it’s a plan, says it with sincerity and all the tenderness of someone he’ll never be. 

Patrick’s hand is still around Pete’s wrist and the tightening of his fingers is all it takes to have Pete still once more.

“Lost? In my studio?”  _ My studio. My life. My bet.  _ “Impossible.”

But not as impossible as what Patrick does next.

_ Mine _

The kiss is a collision of teeth and a clashing of breaths and Patrick can’t get enough. It tastes like victory but sinks in like defeat, Pete’s gasp as soft as a moan. And Pete presses back, presses hands into Patrick’s hips and teeth into his lips. He takes what he wants and Patrick gives freely, his grip on Pete as tight as ever.

And if this is the price of his studio, then he swears to never let go.

So it only makes sense that Pete is the one to finally push away, to stare at Patrick like a stranger, and then turn as if to run.

Patrick doesn’t need to hear the excuse Pete gives, mumbling them out as he shoves past Gerard and out the front door. He's too busy creating excuses of his own.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Patrick’s cheeks are still an obnoxious shade of pink when Gerard leaves a few hours later, lingering by the door and asking if Patrick wants to talk about the trouble in his paradise. It’s a nice gesture from a friend but Patrick thinks of Pete’s words, of Gerard liking him. And then he’s thinking of Pete and his voice and his terribly soft lips.

Gerard seems dejected when Patrick turns the offer down but Patrick’s too emotionally drained to care.

An hour passes in the studio after that, early morning light becoming the beckoning shades of night. Patrick passes time by rearranging instruments and wiping down surfaces, filing away Gerard’s ideas and avoiding the back at all costs. The memory of the vocal booths has been tainted by the memory of Pete and Patrick doesn’t know how ashamed he should feel. He’s never seen Pete as furtive as he had been when he left, scampering past Gerard with barely a word. Had it been rude of Patrick to steal such a sudden kiss? Or had it just not been as good as Patrick thought?

Patrick pauses, back against the wall in the front lounge, and considers the latter question. He doesn’t care about being rude to Pete, he tells himself, but his pride does care if Pete didn’t enjoy it. Isn’t that the point, anyway? To make the other person want more?

Fingers find his lips and his eyes slip shut as he presses against his own touch. Is it wrong to say that, for him, the kiss was nice? Surely, if it was his own move in the game then there’s no reason to hide from whatever it might have done. And Patrick’s never been called a bad kisser before.

He supposes Pete’s never heard the phrase, either. Fingers slide across his bottom lip, mimicking but not quite catching the soft petal press that Pete’s lips had held before giving in and pushing back, reciprocating with a gasp and a sigh. Those simple sounds, those shifts of breath, had been the prettiest things Patrick’s heard from Pete, far greater than any endless ramble or cocky word he’s shared so far. And thinking of those sounds, thinking of breath brushing against and warming his mouth— something in Patrick’s skin sparks in response.

Just as quickly as he had kissed Pete, Patrick drops his hand and scoffs. He’s being stupid, he knows. This isn’t anywhere near a fairytale and kisses don’t make people fall in love. Pete has no scruples about playing dirty, he’s proved that, so Patrick should feel no guilt in doing the same.

In fact, he should feel nothing, at all. 

His head drops back against the wall, teeth pressing down on the same place Pete had bitten— briefly, suddenly— during their kiss. It’s still tender, still stings when he uses the right amount of pressure, and he doesn’t hate it as much as he should. If anything, he—

The door clangs open with a gentle shove from the outside. Patrick opens his eyes, unprepared for the intruder.

Unprepared for Pete.

All of Patrick’s practiced words, the things he thought he could say, scatter with gasps and sighs as Pete hesitates in the doorway, eyes tired and fixed on Patrick. He’s different when he’s pressed against the dark of night, the silence of after-hours. It’s nothing gentle but it’s nothing harsh; he’s simply different and Patrick can’t bring himself to turn him away no matter how he knows he should. Something about Pete’s hollowed gaze, empty of the fire he’d carried in with Ashlee and fighting words a few hours ago, tunnels beneath Patrick’s exhaustion and rationality, and Patrick finds himself stepping away from the wall.

“Is something wrong?” He asks without meaning to. “Are you alright?”

And it’s not that Patrick cares, he reminds himself. It’s just that no one should have to look so lost; it’s just that Pete pretended to care, too.

“Fine,” Pete says as a way of answering. He shakes a little, a dog coming in from some unseen rain, and then crosses the room to collapse on the couch. He leans forward, fingertips pressed to his temples and his eyes focused on the floor. “How were things with… with Gerard?”

He remembers his friend’s name. Should Patrick be impressed? Or is it further harassment and play-pretend jealousy? Patrick sighs, dropping his hands into his pockets.

“It was alright. Just a few more ideas and then we can start recording. There’s no way to fit actual musicians into the budget so I’m probably gonna end up helping,” he offers, each word more meaningless than the last. He doesn’t know why he’s telling Pete this, why it matters that these details are shared with someone else. Patrick’s never taken such an interest in his own life before; why is it so easy to tell it like a story now? That same breeze of something strange, that sensation from when he remembers the kiss, blows down his skin with warm breath. He shivers but doesn’t hesitate when his feet start carrying towards Pete, when his decision is to sit beside him rather than to run away. “He asked how you and I met, you know.”

At this, at last, Pete looks up and Patrick blinks quickly, eyes darting away before he can trick himself into searching for some latent kindness.

“What did you tell him?” Pete’s voice, his urgency, can be read as curiosity and that’s how Patrick chooses to hear it— the tone of a businessman questioning the details of a deal he’s made. 

Patrick shrugs, trying to remember why he brought it up in the first place. “Nothing. He went back to drawing before I could answer.”

“Well, then.” Of course, Pete wouldn’t give him a break; of course, Pete would lean closer, push harder. “What _would_ you say?”

What can he say? And what kind of question is that? In that maudlin tone, that soft voice, what is Pete asking from him? It’s not the demands from a power-hungry stranger or the calculated attack from a foe, it’s something even less than that. Something uncared for, something lost in whispers and hushed breaths. It’s so small, it’s nearly nonexistent and Patrick leans in to catch it.

“I don’t know,” he says, he lies even as his mind begins to spin a tale through his mind. “Maybe when people ask... we can say you were, um, you were looking for a studio so you checked this one out and—”

Patrick’s turn in their game gets cut short as Pete makes a sour sound in the back of his throat, shaking his head when Patrick looks over.

“Not like that,” he says as if Patrick’s supposed to just understand. “Like… If this  _ was  _ real… If it wasn’t... whatever it is, how would you have wanted it to happen? How would you want to meet someone you love?”

Patrick’s entire being pauses, his breath caught in his throat as he stares at Pete. This, more than anything else, sounds like a trick. It sounds like Pete searching for a new way to torment him, a new weakness to expose, and Patrick’s eyes narrow at the thought. If he refuses to answer, will Pete only press harder? And if he makes up a lie, will it help Patrick win? 

Each thought leaves nothing but murky plans and dusty ideas, a step behind Pete and a terrifying drop below. His eyes latch onto Pete's with all the clicking of a safety harness, a reassurance that he’s not a victim meant to fall. He spends moments, silent seconds, seeking out a flaw in Pete’s armor, a dent in his wall. If this is a trick, then Patrick will find it.

But what he sees is nothing but wonder. Nothing but the simple curiosity of a question presented. 

“Music,” Patrick says, at last, the word as certain as the building around them. It’s vulnerability wrapped up in two syllables, a last confession in just one sound. Tearing back his skin and showing off his fears drew Pete closer the last time he did this so Patrick ignores his own shaking hands, ignores his own wanting emotions, and drops back into honesty with all the thudding pain of hitting the ground. “I’ve always loved music so it would still have to be that.”

Their eyes are matched, their gazes locked, and Patrick sees Pete’s smile before it ever reaches his lips.

“Okay, so let’s say I heard you singing. I’d be looking for a singer, not a studio. A person, not a... And then I’d hear about this awesome singer trying to get noticed and it's—” Pete starts only to stop when Patrick scrunches up his face and shakes his head.

“No, I’d never be a singer. That’s just— No.” Patrick’s laugh is as gentle as his voice, as natural as the whisk of the wind outside. “If I was going the musician route, it’d be as someone with an instrument. A drummer. Maybe.”

“Okay.” And Pete’s smiling, Pete’s grinning, he’s looking at Patrick like he was never upset at all. “Okay, I’d be starting this band and you’d try out as a drummer. But then I’d catch you singing and tell you that it’d be a crime to keep that voice hidden behind a kit.”

Pete’s words raise none of the usual alarms in Patrick’s mind; instead, they meander through his thoughts like a river, carving out canyons and crevices where this daydream will find space to exist.

“Should I include a part where I refuse to go onstage at our first gig, then?” Patrick asks. “Or should it be more dramatic, with car crashes and a changing band lineup?”

“I see no reason we couldn’t include it all, if it’s just pretend,” Pete says, his smile cutting straight through Patrick’s chest. “But I want us to have a set band by the time we record our first album.”

“Okay, but only if I’m in charge of the music.” Back-and-forth, up-and-down. This isn’t any game Patrick knows but he plays along all the same. “You’d owe me after pushing me up front like that.”

“Would you throw a fit if I challenged you and demanded to write the lyrics?” Pete asks.

“That depends on if you’d be okay with me singing them.” It’s easy, too easy, to joke with Pete; scarier, though, is how easily Patrick could see the scene they’re sharing.

Young— because, of course, they’d be young and stupid and full of dreams. Pete would show up one day, as cocky and as infuriating as he is now, and he would do all he could to make Patrick’s life miserable. Fighting over their roles in the band, fighting over what words to go in what songs. They’d drive everyone else insane with their constant bickering, their endless noise, but it’d work, somehow. The way Patrick still hasn’t killed Pete despite having every reason to— the way Pete is still sitting by Patrick’s side. They’re opposites and yet a match, two sides of the same coin. Never facing each other, never meeting the way they should, but still ending up in the same place and at the same time, still creating something worth more than either of them apart. 

So maybe that’s why Patrick laughs when Pete’s describing his bass skills. Maybe that’s why he reaches out and pokes Pete’s arm.

Maybe that’s why he interrupts to ask, “Okay, but then how would we fall in love?”

But the words aren’t defeat. Even as he feels them crash into the air and bring silence down, even as his eyes widen and he gasps as if he can take them back, even as Pete stops and stares and listens with every intent to hear it again.

It’s not defeat.

And it’s only because Pete’s smile stays and his eyes don’t look away.

“I think it would be a bit of a waste to spend all that time knowing each other and never falling in love.” Pete chooses his words so carefully Patrick can practically see him plucking each one from the air, testing its weight before placing it gently in the small space between them. “I’m not really a fan of wasted opportunities so I imagine that, in that world, that version of me would just love that version of you from the very beginning. And it wouldn’t be a question of when we fell in love— it’d be a question of when that version of you would notice.”

“But I’m not good at noticing things like that. I’m not good at figuring emotions out.” This dream, however ephemeral, hangs between the two of them like a forbidden fruit, ripe and plump and glistening with temptation. Patrick leans in, imagines he can taste the flesh of it on his tongue already. “So maybe that version of me would just have to wait, just have to accept that it was happening. And, maybe, one day, after a show or after reading some of your words, I’d open my eyes and think… Yeah. Yeah, I’m supposed to love you.”

He’s supposed to love him because that’s how this story goes, that’s how this story started. Pete asked a question and Patrick answered with a worse one; how did we meet becoming how did we love. And Patrick still can’t answer it fully, terrified of what poison lies in such a search, but Pete’s eyes burn as if he knows the truth. His lips purse as if he’s prepared to share.

And Patrick would give anything to know what happens in that parallel world, if he’s ever smart enough to escape or if he’s dumb enough to fall in love. Would that Pete pursue him with honest intentions or would they be doomed to play pretend and lie? And who would they be lying to?

Patrick doesn’t know if he envies that other self, if he wishes life was as simple as touring and singing and pining for love. Did that version of him know Pete’s secrets? Did that version of him know Pete’s lips?

It doesn’t matter. Because this version of Patrick does.

He’s prepared to reacquaint himself with the sensation already, falling towards Pete with his eyes slipping shut. And Pete moves closer, too, that smile beckoning in a way it never has before.

Patrick’s eyes are nearly shut.

And that’s when Pete pulls away.

The world shatters with Patrick’s breath as Pete drags himself back with a flash of wide eyes and flailing hands. He stares at Patrick, half-fallen off the couch, and simply breathes.

“I need to go,” he says when his breaths aren’t answer enough. “I have somewhere I need to be.”

Though Patrick doesn’t know Pete and all his tricks, he knows a lie when he hears one. And Pete’s not a very good liar at all.

“Now? Really? Why do you keep leaving? Don't I deserve some explanation?” If Patrick’s snapping, it’s only because he was close to winning; if he’s blazing and he’s hurting, it’s only because his pride was cut.

It’s only because Pete doesn’t respond.

He simply stands and trembles; he looks at Patrick with no form of apology in his eyes.

In fact, the last thing Patrick notes before Pete hurries to leave is that there’s nothing in his eyes, at all.

Nothing but a reaction that Patrick feels echoing through his soul.

<><><>

Over the night and over the next morning, Patrick retreats into one of the safer recesses in his mind. Away from Pete and the stories they shared, away from pain and the studio’s fate. For hours, he hides in music and darkness until he can’t do so any longer. 

It’s his day off from studio work but he finds himself making the trek down to the building anyway, hands in his pockets and a whistling tune to keep him from his own thoughts for long. He hesitates only when he gets to the door, the key in its slot as he stares at his own hands. 

A week ago, he’d think of his father granting him the extra key, gifting him the task of setting up and closing the place. A mere week ago, he’d imagine only the loneliness waiting within.

But now? His thoughts snag on memories of emotions he’s buried beneath logic and rules. He remembers feeling breathless with laughter and tender smiles, wanting kisses and another version of himself created. This is the door that shut after Pete left without explanation. This is the reason Pete was ever here in the first place. Pete’s desire for a building as simple as this, as rundown as this one’s become, is what has led to confusion and worse. Patrick presses a hand flat to the surface of the door, sighing as people pass by without understanding. He imagines the studio presses back into his palm, as alive as Patrick wishes it could be. In his mind, past the self-doubt and curiosities, Patrick wonders;  _ what does Pete want with you? _

When he opens the door and steps into the darkness inside, he can hear the studio echoing the question back. 

But it’s a question that’s easily forgotten once he turns on the lights and cleans up the memories from the night before. Decorative couch cushions rearranged, surfaces wiped off, and the mini fridge restocked from the opened pack of bottled water kept in the office. They’re menial tasks but they keep his hands busy and, as always, they ease him back into a sense of comfort as the smallest details connect to create a comforting studio atmosphere. 

It’s as he’s going through old files, deciding what to keep and what to toss, when he hears the knocking at the front door. His eyebrows furrow and he sets the pages back down, frowning as the banging continues on the door— a door that, he knows, clearly marks when the studio is and isn’t open. 

Everything set back in place, Patrick readjusts his shirt and curiously makes his way to the front. If someone’s intent on breaking in, he might as well go find out why. 

He doesn’t know quite what he expects— and he doesn’t admit to what he hopes— but the cluster of teens gathered around the front with their phones out isn’t quite it.

Patrick stumbles back from the sudden sight but it’s too late, the group of them jumping up and waving once they see him through the glass. 

“Hey, hey man,” one of the older guys up front says when Patrick reluctantly cracks the door open. “You’re Patrick?”

“Um, yeah.” Patrick keeps the door open just enough to peek out, his shoulder pressed behind it in case he needs to shove it back closed. “I’m sorry, the studio’s actually not open today but if you wanted to find a time that works to meet up, then that's—”

“Oh, we don’t need the studio,” the front guy says, stinging Patrick just a little as he waves the idea off. “We’re actually a local band, we play at the cafe a few blocks down. We saw what the sites said about you dating Pete Wentz and we were wondering if you could give him our demo? His label’s huge and it’s just the launch we need to really show the world our thing.”

Sparks of insult flitter from the boy’s words and to Patrick’s skin, causing him to recoil as it sinks in.

“Oh, sorry, I… There’s a whole process for stuff like that on the label’s webpage. If you check that out, I’m sure it’d be more appreciated.” Patrick has no idea if the website actually has any such directions or if they’re accepting demos at the moment but at least he sounds certain when he says it. “If you tell me the band name, I can tell Pete to keep an extra eye out for it.”

It’s not an excuse that would work on Patrick but it’s still worth trying. Even if it does fail.

“Come  _ on _ , man,” the leader says, grubby hands pressed to the glass of the door. Patrick scowls, thinking of how he’ll have to wipe the smudges away later. “Is he here? Can you, like, text him or something? We can tell you our pitch and you can—”

“That’s really not how things work,” Patrick says. “But if you wanted to come back when the studio’s open and record another demo, that’d be a better use of your time here. Not, um—”

“Oh!” And the kid snaps like he finally understands. “Wentz owns the studio, right? So it’ll catch his eye if we use it or even—”

“Actually,” Patrick cuts in, his false smile dropping completely, “the studio is mine. And the hours are on the door. Make a call to schedule some time but, for now,  _ bye _ .”

Slamming the door on prospective clients isn’t the best business strategy and god knows his dad would be aghast but it does give Patrick some pleasure to see their shocked expressions right before he walks away.

Of course, the victory is short-lived as they return to their knocking and shouting, demanding to see be let in and screaming for Patrick to give Pete the demo. One of them bends down and tries to shove the disc beneath the door and Patrick feels the budding beginnings of a headache press behind his eyes.

This is Pete’s fault. And, as Patrick goes back to the office and puts on some music to drown out the noise, it’s the only thought he has. Stupid Pete and his stupid big-name label and his stupid followers on Twitter now knocking down Patrick’s door. Even with the music as loud as it can go, the bothersome noise continues; Patrick locks the office door, only slightly terrified that they’ll actually break in.

The fear heightens when he hears the knocks shift to a side door near the back. It’s lighter than the continued assault at the front, as if they’d split up and investigated possible weaknesses in Patrick’s makeshift fortress. His heart leaps into his throat and he grabs the closest item— a rather heavy paperweight— and sneaks down to the side door, a scream buried in the bottom of his throat in case things go bad. 

The air dances with deep breaths and stuttered steps, Patrick’s jazz music still playing in the background. Eventually, the side door appears before him and, paperweight raised threateningly, he swings it open.

And promptly drops his weapon, jumping back when he sees Pete, arm still raised to knock again.

“Oh,” Pete says, an eyebrow cocked at Patrick’s red face and heaving breaths. “Hey.”

“What the fuck?” Patrick asks in a low voice, hand pressed to his chest as he recovers from what was nearly a near-death experience. Pete smiles, the asshole, and Patrick looks away, scowling and pointing in the direction of the band still banging on his front door. “Did you send them? Were you part of this?”

Patrick knows it makes no sense but it’d be easier to escape his relief if he found out Pete set him up. 

As always, Pete does the exact opposite.

“Oh, no,” he says, shrugging and following Patrick’s gaze. It causes him to lean forward, to step into Patrick’s space, and Patrick’s breath catches like a traitor in his throat. “One of my friends saw the commotion and told me to come free my boyfriend.”

“That still sounds like a setup,” Patrick says, taking an exaggerated step back and crossing his arms over his chest. Suddenly, the idea of Pete sending a fake band to pester him so that Patrick can run off into the sunset with his hero doesn’t sound as insane as before. “And I was fine.”

“Uh huh.” Pete nudges the fallen paperweight with his foot, grinning when Patrick huffs and looks away. “I mean, if you want to hang out in here and take your chances with the rabid band, feel free. But the offer to escape without their noticing still stands.”

_ Escape _ . Such a dramatic word. They’re kids and they’ll get tired eventually; even if they don’t, it’s not like they’re doing much damage other than creating a mess of handprint smears on the doors. The last thing Patrick wants to do is fall into Pete’s trap. 

If it is a trap.

Down one side of the hall, Patrick kissed Pete and Pete kissed him back. In the other direction, they sat together like best friends and pretended there’s a world where they could fall in love. 

And, now, here? Today? 

Patrick bites his lip as he thinks. He doesn’t miss how Pete’s gaze sticks to his mouth.

If Patrick jumps into the trap with his eyes open, will he still see the way out? Or will his sight only find the door of the cage slamming shut?

Patrick doesn’t often like to make such risky bets but, today, he smiles and sighs like there was ever a doubt about what he’d choose. 

“So?” Pete asks, his eyes whirling into Patrick’s like falling stars when Patrick looks back up. And Patrick could look away, could turn his back and shift the scene just enough to find his footing.

Instead, his eyes land on Pete’s with a glittering flourish and he hates himself for doing it.

“Sure,” he says, letting his hands fall to the side. “Show me how to escape.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still don't know anything about running or owning a studio.
> 
> HUGE thank you to anyone reading!! Please leave a comment and let me know what you think!! :)

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea when this is going to be updated since it was mostly a self-gratification thing. Also, I don't have a beta so all mistakes are my own!
> 
> Please, leave a comment to let me know what you think! It fuels my desire to both live and write, haha


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